


An Infallible Reason

by sky_reid



Series: Ready to Fall [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Community: paperlegends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Happy, POV Outsider, Pre-Slash, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Songfic, Violence, explicit but not arthur/merlin and optional reading, i seriously don't know what to tag this story with anymore, kiiiiiiiiiiiiind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur hired Merlin as his assistant two years ago, he didn't expect them to become friends. When he sent Merlin home that night, he didn't expect things to change so much. But they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Infallible Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, pay attention everyone xD
> 
> I'm not gonna lie, this story was written under severe duress and finished mostly because I felt stupid dropping out so late into the Big Bang, and I am not entirely satisfied with it. Having said that, I'm gonna miss working on it.
> 
> Here's a few people without whom this story never, ever would have happened:
> 
>  **Mims** , because she is always the one who makes me actually _want_ to finish my fic, because she's the awesomest friend in the world and because I have a bb!Mims on my screen and I am petting her, a huge thank you for beta-ing this so quickly, and a huge thank you for generally helping me live.
> 
>  **Alexa** , who is actually my Big Bang author (I'm applied as an artist as well, you should all go check out [her story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/487045), because, even though that wasn't her job, she supported me through procrastinating, freaking out and eventually posting this.
> 
>  **Sabrina** who played the role of an amazing cheerleader and convinced me not to delete the entire thing several times over.
> 
>  **Aino** , whose cheerleader I was, and who stayed with me on Skype for ages.
> 
> And here's a few things you need to know about the story itself:
> 
> The rape is _explicit_ , however, it happens between Merlin and two unnamed male OCs; you can skip it by not reading section {0} of the story, titled _perpetual motion_.
> 
> The pairing is kind of vague, one-sided and not really happening; it faded into the background because I was so focused on the effects of rape. Sorry xD
> 
> All titles are taken from the song _Ready to Fall_ by Rise Against, they're just misplaced lyrics; the song itself is awesome and has nothing to do with rape - Idk how I connected it to this fic xD
> 
> My artist is M.I.A. so I'm afraid I have no art to show you guys. Sorry :/
> 
> And before anyone starts bashing, [mild spoiler alert] you can have an orgasm while being raped, due purely to physical sensations; when this happens, it's especially difficult for the victim to recover, as they start to believe they enjoyed the rape. So no, this is not me fetishizing rape, this a legitimate problem. Get fucking informed.
> 
> ...I think that's it. ~~I might change my mind later.~~

 

_An Infallible Reason_

 

~*~

 

_When Arthur hired Merlin as his assistant two years ago, he didn't expect them to become friends. When he sent Merlin home that night, he didn't expect things to change so much. But they did._

 

~*~  
  
 _{0}: perpetual motion_

 

Merlin cranks up the volume on his iPod as far as it will go. He can still faintly hear the men shouting behind him over the guitar riffs, but at least now he can't make out what they're saying. In the two years that he's worked for _Camelot_ , he's gotten used to walking through this park and coming across... interesting people. The whole block is packed full of night clubs (Merlin visits them himself sometimes, when he's not too tired), so most of them are drunk or well on their way there by the time Merlin treks through the trees. It doesn't really excuse their behaviour, but Merlin can't quite blame them for being loud and obnoxious when he can smell the alcohol in the air around them; it's not like he doesn't get a bit out of control when he drinks.

 

Besides, for all the noise they make, the people who gather here are not usually violent. Mostly they just talk amongst themselves and laugh. And sure, sometimes they share their opinions of the passers-by in a not-entirely-polite way, but that's all. The worst that's ever happened to Merlin was being called _fag_ a few times, but that happens even when people are not inebriated, so he just ignored it and carried on. After all, he's had more than a decade to get used to being called names for choosing not to hide who he is.

 

The voices behind him have faded away by the time he reaches the most secluded part of the park. It's a relief not to hear the whistles and the _how about you get on your knees for me_ from the two newest additions to Merlin's least favourite group of park-dwellers (they're really the only ones he's ever had even the slightest problems with, and tonight they seem to be particularly vicious); at the same time, though, he wishes there was somebody else in this section – while he likes to think that he doesn't scare quite that easily (years of living in similar neighbourhoods have taught him as much), this area is still unsettling after two years of walking through it. The dense trees warrant near-preternatural dark, and although Merlin has never encountered anyone here personally, by the used condoms he finds in the morning, he knows this is the chosen place of many for a quick fuck, something he'd rather not witness tonight.

 

It's this part of his shortcut home that often has him wondering if it wouldn't be better to take the longer way down larger, but more roundabout streets, or maybe even pay the ridiculously high price of a monthly Tube ticket. The bodyguards _Camelot_ rents out have offered to walk him home often enough (and teased Arthur over having such a problematic block not twenty minutes away from his main building), but he's always said no, because he knows they're exhausted and he doesn't want to feel like he's using his friends. Still, this route saves him a fair amount of time and, having lived in the area for years, he's rather used to the kind of people who go out here. After all, it wasn't that long ago that his friends and him also spent their Friday nights on the park benches with beers in their hands.

 

He brings the volume down now that there's no need for him to blast away his eardrums in order to avoid the crude comments, and speeds up, wanting to get out of the park as soon as possible. He's tired, and it's nearing midnight, and he just wants to get home and sleep. It's been a long day, with one of their alarm systems malfunctioning and one of their bodyguards injured on duty, so Arthur (and, by default, Merlin too) spent the whole day buried in papers and complaints and letters and bills and statements; when Merlin left, Arthur only waved at him without looking up from the papers he was _still_ studying carefully even though it was way past their working hours on a Friday night. Merlin smiles at the memory – for all that Arthur is an arrogant, spoiled prat who teases every single one of his employees relentlessly, and tortures them with the long hours and too many tasks, he works just as hard (even harder) than all of them, and it's something Merlin respects.

 

As a song he doesn't feel like listening to right now starts, he takes his iPod out and starts going through the tracks on his playlist. As it usually happens, he has to forward through another sixteen songs before he finds something he wants to hear. A few branches crack somewhere behind him and whispered conversation reaches his ears over the temporarily silent earphones, but he resolutely pays it no mind, determined to avoid any awkward confrontations with people not wearing enough clothes for public. He finally settles on one song and places his iPod back in his pocket. He shoves his hands into his pockets too, fingers curling possessively around the blue plastic of his Shuffle's mask, and speeds up further. For some reason, the park is creeping him out even more than it usually does and he feels some kind of prickling on the back of his neck; he doesn't believe in _having a bad feeling about something_ or _sensing that someone's walking behind you_ , but he doesn't quite have a better explanation of what it is that has him almost running right now.

 

He barely contains a sigh of relief as he sees the street lights through the trees – he's going to seriously reconsider the Tube after this. He's about to skip the last few steps (dignity be damned), when a sweaty hand grabs his wrist and tugs him backwards. He stumbles, trips over his own feet and falls to the ground with a loud thud. His earphones are pulled out of his ears painfully by the impact, his iPod rolls out of his pocket and lands not far away, continuing to play loudly enough for Merlin to still hear the beat. Nonplussed, Merlin moves to get up when a fist lands on his cheekbone, causing sharp pain to shoot behind his eyes; he curses but doesn't manage to do much more when he's cut off by somebody yanking his head back by the hair. He hisses in pain and flails his arms so as not to fall down. The ground he is sitting on is soft and damp from the rain yesterday, more mud than dirt, and he can feel his jeans getting wet. He tries to twist around and away from the fingers gripping his hair, still completely confused as to what's happening.

 

“None of that now, sugar,” somebody says directly into his ear and with a shock, Merlin remembers the voice as belonging to one of the men who teased him as he entered the park. He feels the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. His insides twist unpleasantly as the man's friend steps out from the shadows.

 

“Oh, look at you, being all brave,” he coos with a smirk. There's something in his hand and Merlin barely manages to wonder what it is before the guy squeezes it with his fingers just _so_ and a blade pops out. Merlin suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe. He tries to stand up, twist away, fight back, _anything_ , but in his current position, sitting on the ground, his head held back, throat exposed, there's little he can do but sit and wait or try something and risk falling flat on his back, thus putting himself at an even greater disadvantage. He swallows audibly giving the guy in front of him a once over. He's maybe a few years older than Merlin, a bit shorter, but of a stronger build, definitely muscular, undoubtedly capable of overpowering Merlin if need be. Merlin swallows again, his throat dry and panic tying his guts in knots, frantically thinking of words to talk his way out of this.

 

“Scared, princess?” the man behind him asks, voice saccharine sweet, words just slightly slurred. Merlin shivers. “Don't worry, we're not gonna hurt you. We're just gonna give you what you want.”

 

Merlin can hardly hear the words over the white noise in his ears and his brain is way too far into the fight-or-flight response to analyze the words; he tries to break free again, but the hand in his hair tightens and pulls him back sharply, almost catching him off-balance and sending him tumbling backwards. Merlin yelps in pain and shuts his eyes tightly, keeping the tears at the sudden stinging in his scalp from spilling over. He refuses to cry in front of these savages.

 

The _tsking_ from the man in front of him is far too close for comfort. Merlin's eyes snap open and he comes face to face with one of his attackers, going slightly cross-eyed to even see him. “Now, now, don't fight us. That won't be fun,” the man sneers lifting the blade so that Merlin can see it. His other hand comes up and grips Merlin's jaw tightly, holding it completely still. Merlin loses sight of the blade, but feels the cold metal on the side of his neck quickly enough. He tries to swallow, but finds that his throat burns when he does. “Wouldn't want to cut that pretty neck of yours,” the man continues, sounding almost pensive, running the tip of the blade from Merlin's ear down to his shoulder. Merlin feels the thin stripe of fire the knife leaves in its wake, signalling the skin's been broken. He sucks in a breath.

 

“What do you want from me?” he asks, voice breaking pathetically, and Merlin would be embarrassed (his mother has told him countless times, never to show weakness to a bully) but there's a knife pressed to his throat and two men looking hungry for his blood holding him down. His fingers are twitching and his skin is burning with the need to get away, even though he knows he can't – even if he manages to break free from the man holding him down, the other one would easily stop him from going anywhere.

 

The man behind Merlin chuckles, an entirely unpleasant sound, and releases Merlin's hair. Merlin can't help the whimper that leaves his throat when he's shoved forward into the other man's arms. The guy in front of him steps to the side and Merlin scrambles to kneel. Both men laugh as he finally finds balance on all fours. His cheeks heat and he quickly starts to stand up, but one of the men puts a foot on his lower back and pushes him down.

 

“No, no, don't stand up. That's just how we want you,” he says.

 

Merlin's eyes go wide and he feels his stomach drops all the way to the centre of the Earth as realization dawns on him and wipes everything but sheer, utter panic out of his mind. “No, please. _Please_ let me go,” he pleads desperately, so beyond caring for pride and dignity and advice, for anything but getting out of there. He tries to stand up again, but the foot on his back presses him down painfully and it's all he can do to stay upright.

 

“Told you he'd beg,” one of his attackers says through a laugh. “You owe me five quid.”

 

“Whatever,” the other answers. Merlin tries to scramble away from them, but he's not fast enough so one of them grabs his arms and twists them behind his back. Merlin grunts as his face hits the muddy ground. “What did we say about fighting us?” the man chides softly. Merlin feels like throwing up at the sound – kind and warm, affectionate even. _Disgusting_. He continues to squirm. One of the men sighs and then there's a blade at Merlin's throat. Merlin freezes immediately.

 

“If you don't stop trying to get away, I'll kill you,” the guy says, words clear and intentional. Merlin barely dares breathe. The eyes that stare into his are hardly hazy at all, the man's breath contains barely any trace of alcohol, but he has a manic expression, a glint in his gaze that makes Merlin believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that he means business. He stands up and steps away; Merlin barely has enough time to take a breath before his upper body is hauled up by his wrists (still held together behind his back, squeezed tightly in a large hand). This time, Merlin goes willingly, letting his arms go limp and fitting his body to the position the men direct him into; all the while, he can hear Will's sing-song voice in his ear, telling him _just relax as much as you can, it won't hurt so much then, and don't fight back, they'll find it less interesting if you don't_ after that one time Merlin ended up with a split lip and black eye, and Will walked him home, promising to protect him from the bullies every time he can – it was how they became friends and it's still one of Merlin's favourite childhood memories.

 

Thinking about Will has contradictory effects on Merlin: on the one hand, he wants to laugh (and he knows that's just the utter panic in him working him to the point of hysteria), on the other, he really feels like crying (because Will's on a holiday in France, and there's nobody _here_ to help him now, and hell, he doesn't even know if he'll ever see Will again). Before he can pick the appropriate reaction, however, his arms are released and one of his attackers growls into his ear, “Hands and knees, beauty.” Merlin's body assumes the required position, while his brain is oddly detached from it, possibly still too lost in the memories and thoughts to be an active part of the here and now (he pretends he doesn't notice the traitorous thought _coping mechanism_ ).

 

As the man in front of him brings the knife to his face again, Merlin doesn't flinch. It's almost as if this is all happening to someone else, and he's just a helpless witness to it. As if his consciousness is broken to pieces, each focused on one thing, none of them whole enough to keep him aware of his surroundings and thoughts at the same time, he feels the flat of the blade pressed menacingly to his cheek, the hands of the other man as they slide down his sides to his hips, snaking under his shirt and locating the belt of his jeans, but the fear's lost its sharp edge now, has been all but replaced with an odd sense of resignation; it seems to Merlin as if he's watching a disturbing video of something that he can't change. In many ways, this is worse than the panic that consumed him when he was first pushed to the ground.

 

A slap to the face doesn't bring him out of his haze, nor does the touch of chilly air to his naked skin when the man behind him yanks his jeans down roughly. In a strange moment of complete disconnect, he goes through all the statistics on home invasions that he needs to know for Arthur's meeting tomorrow, barely even registering as a rough hand slides appreciatively over his ass and the knife twists on his face, just barely nicking him under his left cheekbone. The distant part of his brain that is usually busy nagging at him is now screaming for him to _do something_ , but it's not strong enough to overpower the shock of _this can't be happening_.

 

In his current state of mind, it's almost a surprise to hear two sets of belts and zippers being undone, and for a split second he thinks that this is the moment he finally wakes up from this nightmare. But it's not, and that sobers Merlin somewhat. The part of his brain that is not paralyzed by fear or simply refusing to accept that this is real takes over more firmly when he feels blunt fingernails digging into the sensitive skin of his cleft as his arsecheeks are spread; he jerks away from uninvited, probing fingers and, in a panic-induced insanity, tries to get up and run away. The man in front of him backhands him, the knife he's holding catching on Merlin's lips, just barely breaking them in the corners, just enough to burn with every curve of his mouth.

 

“What did we say about running?” the man hisses, gripping Merlin's jaw and tilting his face up. “Try that again, and you'll regret it. Got it?” Merlin shuts his eyes tightly as he nods, incapable of doing anything else and so very afraid of what might happen to him if he tries. But it's somehow more difficult when he can't see – it's too easy to feel the rough hands on the backs of his thighs, to smell cigarettes and sweat and a hint of alcohol, to hear the sound of traffic so close, and yet too far for him.

 

As he quickly opens his eyes, everything around him seems to slow down. It's like being in a movie played in slow-motion when a sudden gust of wind makes him shiver all over, the man behind him laughs and smacks his ass, the man in front of him slips a thumb over his lips and it hits Merlin, all the kept-at-bay panic spilling over him with that one thought – he's not getting out of this. He doesn't have time to finish freaking out, before the whole frame-by-frame feeling goes away to be replaced with burning pain that seems to spread out over every single cell in his body; his vision blacks out and he would scream, but a fist connects with his jaw, effectively shutting him up. For what feels like hours after that, he's not aware of anything but pain and darkness; it takes him a disturbing amount of time to figure out that he closed his eyes at some point. When he does, he considers opening them, but he's not sure he wants to face the world around him just yet.

 

He quickly loses track of time. It's difficult to focus on anything (including his own thoughts) other than the pulsing of rhythmical strokes in and out of him. Gradually, the agony starts ebbing away, and the sense of phantom pain all over his skin fades until all that's left is the burn of being stretched too much, being fucked roughly and without preparation. It's nothing he hasn't experienced before, and yet, when he opens his eyes, he finds them full of tears. It's difficult to form a cohesive thought when one part of his brain is busy panicking and the other is praying to wake up from a nightmare and yet another is still frantically, uselessly trying to figure a way out, but he does manage to conclude that pain is not the reason why he feels like he's suffocating, like his skin is on fire. No, it's not physical pain that has him panicking uncharacteristically while his normal smart-ass self who does what he thinks should be done and fights against what he thinks is wrong remains repressed somewhere deep under the blabbering, almost-crying idiot that he is currently; no, it's not pain, it's not even fear or disgust, it's the overwhelming sense of helplessness, the inability to do anything to change his current situation, to get away, the lack of any control, the complete and utter loss of control over everything happening to him.

 

He makes the mistake of looking up. The man in front of him is smirking down at him and the knife in his hand is still hovering disturbingly close to Merlin's throat. Merlin finds he's unable to look away, and he's not sure if it's fear or morbid fascination that has his eyes glued to the ugly grimace on the man's face.

 

“Ooh, don't cry, princess,” he coos, stroking a finger over Merlin's jawline. Merlin flinches and instinctively tries to get away before realizing that moving backwards will only push him further onto the other attacker's cock. He automatically leans forward, further into the hand on his face and the men laugh. “See, I told you he'd like it!” Merlin tries to disagree, but the guy runs a finger over his lower lip and says, “Now, now, there are better things you can do with your mouth.” In a moment of reckless spite and because what the hell else can he do, Merlin bites at the man's thumb as hard as he can and kicks out one of his legs, catching both of his attackers unawares, but it doesn't get him far; another blow to the face makes him yelp and almost black out, while a strong squeeze to his hips keeps him in place. The cold blade biting into the skin under his jaw is a sharp reminder of the reason why he hasn't tried to escape till now. He stops moving, forces himself to stop trembling (from fear and anger both), stops even breathing as the man in front of him hisses menacingly, “Try that again, and you're dead. Now open your mouth.”

 

Merlin looks up, making an effort to scowl and put all the anger and hatred that he can into his glare (while simultaneously hiding the fear), but the face that stares back at him remains unchanged, cold and entirely too sober, mouth curved in a smirk and eyes alight with a mad shine. It makes Merlin's stomach twist and he feels physically sick at the thought that the man is enjoying this. Merlin closes his eyes, suddenly needing at least that one small barrier to separate him from the world (it does little good – he can still see his attacker, as if painted on the inside of his eyelids). When a finger slides over his bottom lip, he knows what he's being asked to do, but he needs to force himself to open his mouth, because even with the imminent threat of a knife on his skin, every ounce of his being is fighting this action – it feels like the most difficult thing he's ever done, like defeat and surrender.

 

Time, Merlin quickly realizes, is oddly fluid when one has nothing for reference. As he kneels there, eyes closed, mouth full now, nothing in his ears but the occasional grunt and a rare, distant rumble of a car, the fact that he's not fighting feels distinctly like he's _letting_ this happen. He's not, somewhere deep down, in the most rational part of his brain, he knows this. But it still disgusts him how he just stays in position, mouth open and legs spread, just counting passing seconds?, uncoordinated thrusts?, gusts of wind?, it hardly matters, he's losing count anyway. It feels as though years have passed since he entered the park, centuries since he last saw his friends. He's only distantly aware of the men's pace speeding up, too busy trying not to pass out or puke or just _die_ , although that might actually be preferable to his current situation.

 

A cackle, like the silly, over-the-top fake ones from witches in cartoons, breaks the silence. Merlin considers opening his eyes, but decides against it, when he feels a hand in his hair, an oddly intimate, and even more sickening for it, gesture that makes him even more determined to keep himself as distant from all this as possible (as if that's still an option).

 

“What?” comes a growled response from above him, before the man shoves his hips forward and Merlin chokes. The hand in his hair gets a tighter grip, more painful and more violent and somehow that makes the whole ordeal at least that one tiny bit easier, more normal. “Don't just be a rag doll, boy,” the man tells him, his voice low and breathy and unbearably close, “suck a little.”

 

Merlin thinks he'd rather throw up, thank you, but considering that he has little choice, he tries to obey. He's not unfamiliar with the act, and it normally even gives him pleasure, but the man tastes foul, salty and overly bitter, the texture and weight of him in Merlin's mouth is just plain _wrong_.

 

A hand is sneaking under over his ribs and stomach and he tries to twist away somehow, but he can't. Suddenly, the hand drops lower and sweaty fingers wrap around his cock, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through him. Mortified, Merlin opens his eyes and jerks away, letting the other man slip from his mouth, and looks down his own body. To his utter and complete shock and horror, he finds that he is somehow, inexplicably – hard.

 

Of all the things that go through his head as possible reactions (being violently sick, passing out, falling flat on his stomach from shock all being viable options), he picks, characteristically, the most insane one – he laughs. Hysterically, in panic, from disbelief, he laughs. But it doesn't take long for his laughter to seamlessly turn into sobbing, uncontrollable and no less hysterical. Through his tears, he can foggily make out the man in front of him jerking off and he turns his face to the side, not sure if he's trying to hide, futilely, or not giving them the satisfaction of seeing him beaten down.

 

The hand on his cock starts moving and Merlin involuntarily lets out a whimper of pleasure against himself and then promptly gets sick when he realizes what he just did, finally foregoing self-control in favour of letting his body do what it's wanted almost from the start as he turns to the side and vomits his dinner half on the grass, half on his own hand. The men laugh at him, but Merlin doesn't have the mental capacity to be insulted or afraid or anything else anymore, he just wants it to be over. He feels exhausted to no end from being torn between alternatives he doesn't like, from being used and stripped of all basic decency, from giving up; he just wants it to be over.

 

And very soon it is, but to Merlin's embarrassment, it begins when he feels _his_ breathing speed up, _his_ hips stuttering forward, _his_ cock twitching and he closes his eyes, turns his head away and bites on his bottom lip to stifle any sounds as he comes. When he's done, all he's left with is the bone-deep aversion to himself, a ringing in his ears and a blankness in his mind only tinted around the edges with guilt. He doesn't hear or see when his attackers finish, just feels the hot, sticky come when in fills him and lands on his cheek. He doesn't move, or look up, or turn away, he doesn't have it in him to do it anymore.

 

“That... was good,” one of the men says, and Merlin no longer bothers to keep track which one it is, just lets his arms fold in and falls to lie down on the ground. The men are still talking, there's a shuffle of clothes behind him, some more laughing; Merlin tries to ignore it as best as he can. He doesn't know how long it takes for them to leave, but after a while, he can't make out anything moving anywhere near him. He lets out a deep breath of relief. Then, suddenly, there's somebody else's warm breath on his face and a rough voice in his ear says, “Thanks for that, princess,” before a pair of wet lips brush over his temple. Merlin shivers in disgust.

 

He doesn't wait long before he starts to get up. Everything hurts, everything is sore, there's dried blood and semen on his face and a tenner is sticking out of his pocket. He picks it up with two fingers, and throws it to the ground, not even beginning to analyze why. Not far away, his iPod is still playing music loudly. He staggers to it, picks it up and looks at the clock. It's barely been twenty minutes. Slowly, gingerly, he cleans his face as much as he can and starts walking home. It's excruciating and embarrassing and it feels like he's going to an execution while everyone is staring (even though there's no one there), but he doesn't stop, doesn't take a break, because if he does, he knows he won't be able to continue.

 

_0.5: the image won't focus (a blur is all that's seen)_

 

His watch says that it's fuck o'clock at night and that normal people are either at home or partying their Friday night away, but he can't leave yet, because these documents are needed for tomorrow and there's no one else to fill them out.

 

“Hey, need anything else?” Merlin asks as he puts the water bottle on the table in front of him.

 

“No, that's fine, thank you,” Arthur replies, rubbing his temples. He's only halfway done, and truth be told, he could use another set of hands on this right now, but it's not fair to ask Merlin to stay even longer, so he doesn't. Just because he has a sadistic boss doesn't mean he should be one as well.

 

“Okay, well, if you're sure then... I'll just go?” Merlin suggests awkwardly. Arthur is too tired to tell if Merlin feels bad for leaving him there alone or just wants to get away as soon as possible. He just waves in Merlin's general direction as he tries to focus on the paper in his hand and make the letters and numbers stop dancing. “See you tomorrow!” Merlin says from the door.

 

“Hey, Merlin,” Arthur calls, feeling like he needs to point out that, “you know you don't have to come tomorrow? I can handle a meeting on my own for once,” but praying that Merlin won't take him up on being a good boss just this one more time (well, and the next, and possibly a few more; but Arthur tells himself it's just this time because it makes him feel better).

 

“Sure you can. But I'll be there anyway so I can tell everyone what a slave driver you are, making me work on a Saturday,” Merlin replies with a wink before he closes the door. Arthur smiles at his papers. Yeah, Merlin will be there. Merlin is always there.

 

Two years ago, when his father made him hire an assistant, Arthur picked a random CV from the pile that littered his desk and accidentally hired a tall, gangly boy with giant ears and a grand total of three hours of work experience. Merlin was incompetent, irritating, obnoxious, loud, perpetually late and just a general pain in the ass; yet, he always got the job done somehow and Arthur could appreciate that.

 

Then one night, Merlin forgot something in the office and had to come back; he caught Arthur still working on some contracts. Arthur is not sure why, but something changed after that – Merlin started showing up on time (mainly, at least), toned down the attitude and the bitching (although he still likes to point out that Arthur is a spoilt prat every once in a while, now he does it as a joke) and began coming to Arthur's weekend meetings even after Arthur had expressly told him that it wasn't part of his job.

 

At some point between then and now, Arthur (although no one will ever hear him say that) started to think of Merlin more as a friend than as an employee and, loath though he is to admit it, he can see how Merlin's insubordination has brought him down to earth a little.

 

The thing is, if he's being honest (he's usually not), Arthur's social life is somewhere between non-existent and pathetic. With the amount of work he does and how tired it makes him, he doesn't have much time left for socializing or going out; thus, most of his interactions are with his business associates and employees, and since he pretty much hates most of the people he deals with, his only friendly relations are with the people working for him. Which, really, says something about his people skills.

 

It's not that he has any problems whatsoever with anyone in the company, in fact, from what he's overheard, most people think he's a pretty good boss; but it's kinda messed up that all the people he spends his time with are paid to be there and it sure as hell isn't a good premise to build a friendship on.

 

Still, there's something about Merlin that sets him apart. Perhaps it's the fact that Merlin is the one he most often shares his time with, maybe it's the way Merlin doesn't just nod his head and obey but vocally disagrees when he thinks Arthur is wrong, maybe it's the constant friendly bickering or the fact that despite all his complaints Merlin still comes to work every morning and diligently works on making Arthur's life easier; whatever it is, Arthur knows he can count on Merlin, even when they don't see eye to eye, and for that he is grateful.

 

He doesn't really know what Merlin thinks of him or their sort-of-friendship, but Arthur has to acquiesce to the fact that Merlin is probably one of his closest (and only) friends, as sad as that is. They don't spend much time together outside of work, and they don't really share the most intimate parts of their lives with each other, but Arthur knows he can count on Merlin for pretty much anything and that's what's important to him.

 

He hopes Merlin knows it goes both ways, but somehow he's not quite sure. He wants to give Merlin that kind of security of knowing that someone will be there for you no matter what, even if they're not on your speed dial (which, embarrassingly enough, Merlin is on his phone), but he knows no one really expects him to do that for a mere assistant, and since he's never been very good at expressing himself verbally and has avoided it at all costs since just about forever, he doesn't think he's really shown Merlin how much more than just an employer-employee their relationship is to him.

 

The beauty of it (and the reason why Arthur likes having Merlin around so much) is that even not knowing all this, Merlin will still show up at the meeting tomorrow, on a Saturday, when he doesn't have to, and just be there for support and (unwanted) advice and relaxing and back up. And Arthur appreciates that more than he can explain.

 

It's kind of pitiable how his whole life revolves around his work, he eventually decides, closing the folder with some statistics about home invasions. It's Friday night and he's been working hard all week – he's earned a break. It'll be fine tomorrow; even if he can't remember something, Merlin will. That's the best part of having friends – knowing that someone has your back.

 

He turns off the lamp and locks the door of his office as he leaves. Tomorrow, he vows (not for the first time), he'll start working on his social life and maybe even go out for drinks with Merlin. They've got to start somewhere after all. But that can wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he's going home for some well-deserved rest.

 

_1: just go on to what you pretend is your life_

_(but please don't die on me)_

 

Arthur is fairly certain it's Saturday. He's also pretty sure that Saturday is the first half of the weekend and that weekend equals rest. His alarm clock, however, seems to disagree. Fortunately for Arthur, it has no legs; he reaches out from under the covers and slams the surface of the digital clock somewhere in the general vicinity of the snooze button.

 

He sinks back into the fluffy pillows and slowly drifts off, congratulating himself on managing to go back to sleep after he's already woken up. Then it hits him. Yes, it's Saturday. Yes, it's the weekend. But it's not rest. He has a meeting. A really important meeting. That he's not fully prepared for. That he really, really should start getting ready for.

 

He forces his eyes open and rubs at them with his palms. He should still have more than enough time for a shower, he hasn't been out for that long. He stretches and pushes away the blankets, embracing the chilly air as something to keep him awake (hopefully). He glances at his clock before searching the area around his bed for his slippers (he really needs to learn to fold his clothes once he takes them off in the evening). He gives himself a metaphorical pat on the back when he locates the missing footwear before his mind connects the numbers from the clock with what they mean. And then...

 

“Holy crap!”

 

With his plans shattered by the fact that he has 15 minutes instead of the two hours he thought he had, Arthur frantically rummages through his drawers until he comes up with clean underwear and socks. He considers taking a shower anyway because he feels disgusting, but eventually just picks out a suit and a tie, dresses and brushes his teeth. He hopes to god Merlin will know all the statistics he needs for today, because he sure as fuck doesn't have the time to learn them now.

 

~*~

 

Somebody is out to get him, Arthur decides as he storms into the _Camelot_ building; first he forgot half the forms he needed so he had to go back, then his car door jammed and he had to practically steal his own vehicle, the traffic was nothing short of tragic, and to top it all off, Morgana just called him to tell him that one of their best bodyguards, Leon, was injured on the job last night _and_ that a Welsh family would be suing them because their alarm system malfunctioned and enabled a robbery. The way the day's been so far, Arthur almost wishes he'd stayed in bed after all.

 

“Mister Pendragon!” the receptionist (Faye or Freya or something equally whimsical; Arthur only hired her a couple of weeks ago and she's pretty shy, so he doesn't really know anything about her) calls from behind the desk, already getting up and gathering some papers. A lot of papers. Arthur groans inwardly. “Your father and the board are already here, they're waiting for you in the Oval room, the Downeys are asking us to pay for the damage and property or they'll be pressing charges, Gaius is already negotiating with them,” she manages, quite impressively, in one breath.

 

“I don't have time for that right now,” Arthur replies, pressing the elevator button and adjusting his tie. “Does my father know about this?”

 

“Yes, he's the one who put Gaius in charge,” the receptionist answers after checking some papers.

 

“Then it's dealt with. How is Leon?”

 

“The hospital won't tell me anything because I'm not family and I haven't managed to get in touch with his next of kin yet,” the girl keeps talking quickly as she joins Arthur in the elevator (moments like these are what reminds him of why he hired her in the first place – she's efficient and quick, he likes that), “ _but_ I do know a nurse from that hospital and she's told me that it's only a minor wound to his upper arm and he'll be fine.” Also resourceful, apparently.

 

“Good,” Arthur mumbles, feeling genuinely relieved, but also too stressed out to manage a more adequate response. “Where's Merlin?” he asks, taking the papers from the receptionist and skimming them. They're the statistics he hasn't learnt, so he decides to seem responsible and keep them; if nothing else, at least he will look professional and not like he's relying too much on his assistant (which he is, but nobody needs to know that).

 

“Um, he's not here,” the girl replies, frowning and sounding like it only just occurred to her that something is not right about that.

 

“What do you mean, he's not here?” Arthur snaps, regretting it immediately when the receptionist shrinks away from him. “Has he called in late? Or sick?” he asks, already planning how he's gonna yell at Merlin on Monday.

 

“No, he's just... not here,” the girl shrugs, looking almost like she's going to cry or like Arthur's about to hit her.

 

“Fine,” he just grits through his teeth. He's unreasonably angry, considering how he was the one who told Merlin he didn't need to come. It's just that, somehow, he's come to expect Merlin to be there all the time and going into the meeting room alone feels unnatural. It'll be the first meeting in almost a year and a half that he has to do on his own; he's used to Merlin's presence, even when Merlin's just being an incompetent, nagging thorn in his side. It makes him feel better to have someone standing by him (his father says that it's because he feels more important when he has 'underlings' with him, but Arthur selectively overhears such comments).

 

“Would you like me to replace him?” the receptionist offers, but Arthur, foolishly perhaps, shakes his head before he even thinks about it; he's not even sure why, but it just doesn't feel right. Inside, however, he's panicking a little – he doesn't know everything he needs to for this meeting and he could really use someone who would pour coffee after coffee into his mouth and pinch him when he starts nodding off.

 

Before he faces his destiny, he checks his office, just in case, and makes sure he hasn't missed any e-mails or texts explaining why Merlin's not here; then he plots in great detail how he'll yell at Merlin and give him the most menial, boring tasks a security firm has to offer as punishment. When that helps him vent his frustration and calms him down a little, he walks down the hall and opens the double door to the largest and most opulent meeting room in the building, all the while feeling like he's about to be thrown to the lions. Merlin is so going to pay for leaving him hanging like this.

 

~*~

 

The meeting is a complete and utter catastrophe. Actually, it's not, but that's what Arthur will tell Merlin on Monday to make him feel bad. In all honesty, it's not that awful. His father is not pleased with him, but that's not new, and the board of directors are as unimpressed as they usually are, so no harm done, really. Except maybe to Arthur's ego; he was, after all, planning on impressing everyone with his new plan for expanding the business, but now that's overshadowed by the recent problems (and his unprofessional behaviour, as his father constantly reminds him), so it's not the right time to bring it up.

 

He sits through the rest of the meeting trying to blend into the wall. It's not like it matters, nobody's really here to see _him_ , not even his own father. He knows that his position is really just a farce, everything important is still handled by the same group of men that started _Camelot_ , the same group of men sitting around him now; he's just a pretty boy prince, there as the face of the company, someone to introduce to the people. Like his receptionist. And he doesn't even know her name.

 

~*~

 

The problem with meetings on Saturday is not only that they take a lot of time, but also that they usually leave him feeling frustrated. Now, normally, he would deal with that by going out for drinks with Merlin and maybe someone else from the company or some of Merlin's friends, but today, he can't do that, which, of course, only makes him more agitated. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that this is completely irrational, but he's not in the mood for psychoanalyzing himself right now.

 

What he is in the mood for is getting wasted. Unfortunately, getting drunk alone makes him seem pathetic even to himself, so he doesn't do it. Instead, he goes home, plugs in his laptop, checks his mail and then pulls up the forms he needs to fill out for court and the suggestions for improving the security plan of their biggest client, _Mercia Inc_. Because, for Arthur, work is the way to rest from work.

 

~*~

 

Arthur remembers a time when Saturday night involved going out with friends and dating and having fun.

 

Actually, he doesn't. For as long as he can remember, he's been groomed to take over his father's company and become the best businessman he can possibly be. He remembers a time when he had fewer obligations, but not a time when he ever truly felt free. For years, it hasn't been a problem – he wants to succeed his father, make the companybigger and better, but he's nearing 30, working this hard is getting more and more difficult, he's not at a place in his life that he hoped he would be in by now and he's starting to wonder if it's all worth it.

 

When his father made him CEO of _Camelot Securities_ almost four years ago, he thought that was it, he was in charge, he would achieve something, fix all the problems and bring about world peace with rainbow-coloured streets and candy canes instead of trees (well, not really, but he was equally naïve and unrealistic). The reality, he's learnt by now, is that his father controls the board of directors, and the board controls him – he is no more than a chess piece they move around; a valuable chess piece, but just a piece nonetheless.

 

It's frustrating him that he works so hard to prove himself, yet it's never enough. But he keeps trying because his life has long ago become synonymous with his job, it's possibly been like that since the day he was born, and he doesn't know how to do anything else. So he keeps trying to be better, to work harder, to become the son that his father wants him to be.

 

He rubs at his eyes and checks the clock in the bottom right corner of his laptop screen. It's well past midnight. He's not sure where the time's gone – the last time he checked, it was only evening. He finishes up with the application he's been reading (more like staring at while indulging in letting his brain shut off for a while) and puts his laptop into hibernation. Just another day in the life of Arthur Pendragon, fitting seamlessly into all the others, just another 24 hours of meetings and work and exhaustion blurring into each other.

 

~*~

 

Somebody is playing _Smoke on the Water_ really loudly right next to his ear. Or maybe it's just his phone ringing. Either way, Arthur wants it to stop; he's sleeping and he'd like to continue, thank you very much. He seems to be out of luck, though, as the phone continues to buzz under his pillow. He gives it another minute of two, but it doesn't stop so he eventually sends one hand mindlessly searching for it. By the time he looks at the screen he already has seven missed calls and they're all from Morgana. Of course. That woman doesn't know when to let it go.

 

“What?” he croaks into the phone as soon as it starts ringing again.

 

“Please tell me you're not still sleeping. It's almost 2pm,” Morgana drawls, sounding bored and uninterested.

 

“Yes, well, us mere mortals still need sleep,” Arthur replies dryly, sitting up. Now that Morgana's pointed it out, he realizes that it is quite late; he doesn't remember when he last slept for this long, but damn, it feels good.

 

“I thought you gave up on that pesky waste of time when you started working for our father,” Morgana snipes back, easily falling into their bantering habits.

 

“Whatever. What do you want?” The fact that the first thing that crosses Arthur's mind is that Morgana has some more bad news about work says volumes about how he lives his life. But no one can be bothered to re-evaluate their biggest life decisions when they've only just woken up.

 

“We're going out tonight, I wanted to know if you'd be joining us,” Morgana says, still in that utterly disinterested tone.

 

“Yes, you sound like you're dying to find out,” Arthur teases, getting up and heading to the kitchen. Coffee sounds like heaven right now.

 

“I'm doing my nails. You only have about 15 percent of my attention,” she replies breezily, but Arthur can hear the amusement in her voice.

 

“Good to know where your priorities lie,” he tells her, smiling. Morgana just sighs exaggeratedly and Arthur has a feeling she'd probably stick her tongue out at him if they were in the same room and if it weren't too childish.

 

“So, are you joining us?” she asks again, startling him from the sleepy trance he's fallen into while staring at his coffee machine, waiting for it to produce his wakefulness potion. He may be a little addicted to coffee, he concludes when it occurs to him that he can't imagine a morning without it. He realizes that he's spacing out again; he's still far too close to sleep to focus on anything.

 

“Who's us?” he finally remembers to ask. He knows that he doesn't have to be too concerned because for all her insisting that she has a life outside of work and that Arthur should follow her example, Morgana doesn't actually hang out with many people who are not from their company, except for one or two high school girlfriends; still, he wants to know who will be there before he decides if he wants to join them – he's not always in the mood for _all_ of Morgana's friends.

 

“I don't know, people,” Morgana replies, and Arthur can tell that she's smirking just from how she sounds. “Gwaine and Elyan definitely, probably Percival and Leon, Lancelot, Gwen.” Oh, well, that's not too bad, Arthur decides to himself. Then Morgana adds, “Maybe Elena and Mithian.” Of course Morgana would almost 'forget' to mention the two of them.

 

Not that Arthur has a problem with either of them, but... Elena is a charming lady, Arthur's always thought so, but she doesn't understand the concepts of subtlety or propriety, as Arthur's learnt on many occasions when he talked to her or went to a pub with her (even with all the disastrous dinners with his father put aside, Arthur has had far too many embarrassing moments because of Elena's talent of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time), and the story of him and Mithian is practically legendary by now – how Morgana all but bullied them into dating because she thought that they'd be a cute couple and that Uther would approve (which he did) but also how terribly awkward that was for the two of them and how they didn't click at all; they broke up pretty quickly, with no arguments or yelling or crying, but Arthur's always felt uncomfortable having to spend time with Mithian since then.

 

“Come on, Arthur, you haven't gone out since, like, last year,” Morgana whines. She's exaggerating, of course, but it has been a while since he went out with some friends just for the sake of having fun, not rewinding from a long day or getting drunk to forget something. Still, of the people Morgana said were coming, he only feels up to hanging out with Lancelot, one of their bodyguards, a quiet and calm, yet very opinionated young man (Arthur loves having discussions with him), and Gwen, his polite and friendly girlfriend who Arthur still doesn't know very well. Gwaine and Elyan are too loud and lively for Arthur's current sombre mood, while Leon and Percival will insist on finding out what's wrong with Arthur; and it hasn't escaped Arthur that Morgana didn't even mention Merlin.

 

“Is Merlin gonna be there?” he blurts, before remembering that Morgana has an uncanny ability to misinterpret that. This time, however, she surprises him and doesn't react.

 

What she says instead is, “I actually don't know, I thought you would tell me?”

 

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, frowning. Morgana of all people knows that he doesn't usually make social calls.

 

“Well, he said he'd definitely be there when I last saw him on Friday, but he hasn't been answering his phone since then,” Morgana replies, sounding more alert now. Arthur finds it mildly upsetting that his own sister tunes out while talking to him, but tunes right back in when talking about a friend.

 

“He hasn't called _me_ , if that's what you're asking,” he says, pouring himself his first cup of coffee.

 

“Didn't you see him yesterday?”

 

“No, he wasn't there for the meeting,” Arthur replies, taking a sip (and burning his tongue in the process). It is indeed strange that Merlin didn't come to the meeting yesterday without having called first, but Arthur himself always tells Merlin he doesn't need to show up on the weekends, so maybe Merlin figured he didn't have to phone in. What's stranger, though, is that Morgana hasn't heard from him either, since they're, like, best friends or whatever (Arthur feels kind of possessive over Merlin, since Merlin is _his_ best friend, and besides, he met Merlin first). Merlin is a fairly sociable person who likes to go out; his lack of contact with Morgana immediately sets off a red light for Arthur.

 

“That's... unusual,” Morgana says, sounding like she's deep in thought, but when she carries on, Arthur can practically hear the shrug in her voice. “I guess I'll call him again. Maybe his phone is not working properly or something.”

 

“Yeah, probably,” Arthur agrees mindlessly, sipping his coffee. He can't quite shake the odd feeling that something is off about Merlin and his behaviour, but Morgana probably knows Merlin better, so he trusts her judgement that everything is okay. Besides, he wouldn't be caught dead admitting that he's maybe, kinda, sort of worried about Merlin (to Morgana of all people). So he ignores the nagging voice in the back of his mind that keeps telling him to check up on Merlin and swallows his worries with his coffee.

 

“So, shall I count you in for tonight?” Morgana asks in a voice that is deceptively sweet. Arthur considers saying no, because he'll be tired tomorrow morning and because clubbing is not really his thing and because of a thousand other things that he always uses as excuses for not going out, but the prospect of making sure Merlin is actually fine has him agreeing, albeit he makes Morgana swear to keep him sober first.

 

~*~

 

As the day drags on, Arthur does what he usually does on the weekends – watches TV, does work, alternates between drinking tea and coffee. All the while, however, there's something in the back of his mind, a sense that something is not right. So Arthur does what he never does on the weekends (or any other time, for that matter) – he picks up the phone and calls Merlin's house. The phone rings four times before it goes to the machine and Arthur leaves a concise, hopefully nonchalant message asking Merlin to call him back. Then he goes back to his routine.

 

~*~

 

The club Morgana directs him to is stuffy and overly crowded and far, far too loud. By the time he gets there, everybody is already tipsy and most of them are dancing; they wave at him, say their hellos and try to get him to dance, but Arthur avoids all of it with practiced ease, finding their regular booth, sitting down and ordering the one and only drink he'll be having tonight. He quickly scans the coats and jackets thrown over the backs of chairs and couches. It's easy enough to spot that Merlin's is not there. He frowns and takes out his phone.

 

He doesn't normally use his phone for much of anything except business calls and setting up meetings, something which Morgana teases him about relentlessly, but now he sends her a text to ask if Merlin is there. She doesn't reply for a while, and Arthur is starting to get frustrated when his drink arrives, so he looks up. Across from him, on the dance floor, Morgana catches his eye, smiling and dancing, her hair totally messed up and make-up smudged; she shakes her head no, then continues to dance.

 

Arthur drinks his scotch in record time, sets the glass down with too much force (not that anyone will hear over the non-stop beat of the music), then takes out his phone again. It's a sign of how worried he is that he's using the blasted thing this much, he thinks as he send Merlin a text, asking him if he's all right and warning him that if he is, he won't be when Arthur next sees him. Then he grabs his coat and leaves, expertly avoiding everyone he knows.

 

_2: hold on, slow down_

_(i count the times that i've been sorry, i know, i know)_

 

Mondays are the worst, Arthur officially decides, as he hurriedly skims the papers while trying to balance his toast and his coffee in one hand. He's late (he's almost always late), and while he knows everyone will think it's just for the dramatic entrance, this morning he has a different reason. His alarm clock went off a full hour too early for some damn reason, which made him reasonably frustrated and cranky, but what really set him off was the fact that his mobile showed no text messages or missed calls (which made him unreasonably pissy and not a little worried). He spent a whole hour and a half picking up his phone and setting it down again before he dialled Merlin's home number _and_ mobile phone, but they both went to voice mail. He left exactly one angry message before going to his breakfast (okay, maybe he left two messages, but he had to call again and apologize in case something is actually wrong and he just yelled at Merlin and made it worse, so sue him).

 

Now, Arthur is dressed and almost ready for work, but he's finding excuses to stay at home as long as possible, just to make sure his phone won't go off while he's not there. When it doesn't even after he's fifteen minutes late, Arthur gives up and leaves, his thoughts a strange mix of plans for strangling Merlin and plans for mothering him in case he's somehow seriously ill.

 

_~*~_

 

He's late (as predicted), everything in the building is hectic (as predicted) and Freya (he's pretty sure that's her name now) is talking a mile a minute about all the new interested clients and the old clients they're about to lose (as predicted). Merlin is not at his desk (not as predicted). Arthur hopes against hope that Merlin is just late as he slams the door behind himself angrily.

 

~*~

 

When Merlin is not there at lunch hour, it's pretty obvious he won't be coming. Arthur debates calling him again, but realizes that he's probably dialled Merlin's number more times today than he's ever dialled any number, so he decides against it. It's bad for his reputation, he tells himself, as he studiously ignores the nagging feeling that something is not right, that this is not what Merlin is usually like (and the now very real, very heavy dread settling in his stomach; and also the urge to hurt anyone who may have hurt Merlin, which is something he decidedly isn't feeling, no sir). He briefly entertains the idea that he did something to make Merlin terribly angry or insulted or some such, but when he thinks back to Friday, he remembers it as just any old day.

 

Freya walks in while he's still lost in his confusion over Merlin's apparent mysterious disappearance and gives him an odd look. “What?” he snaps at her, hopefully effectively letting her know that he doesn't really feel like discussing his obvious foul mood.

 

“You're not working,” Freya states. “It's odd. Good, but odd. I mean, not good good, you know, but... good for you. As in, it probably means you're thinking about something other than work. Which means you have something other than work. Not that you usually don't. Well... What I'm trying to say is, it's good that work is not the only thing on your mind, you need to loosen up. I mean...” Freya rambles and blushes and rambles some more until Arthur lifts an eyebrow, somewhere between exasperated and grudgingly amused. She apologizes hastily and leaves, almost knocking over the lunch she brought for him (not the kind he likes, which is something Merlin would know; Arthur very much does not miss the way Merlin always gets him the perfect lunch).

 

Freya's visit, however, brings Arthur back to reality. Merlin is his friend (honestly, just friends, don't listen to what Morgana says about therm), yes, and he is getting worried, yes, but he's at work and this is not professional behaviour. He texts Merlin one last time, then resolutely turns to his work and doesn't think about Merlin for the rest of the day (he fails at the latter, but no one needs to know).

 

~*~

 

When he walks out of the _Camelot_ building, Morgana's flashy red car is waiting for him. This in itself is not that unusual, but Morgana is not inside the car, she's leaning against it, which usually means it's time for a lecture on why it's not good to come to work sick or why their father is the biggest asshole in the world. Arthur doesn't remember a recent trigger for either of those particular lessons right now, though, which makes Morgana waiting to take him out for coffee somewhat distressing.

 

“Hello?” he tries tentatively.

 

“Freya informs me you were _thinking_ today,” Morgana offers in lieu of a reply, taking off her giant sunglasses (it's not even sunny outside, but Arthur has long made peace with the fact that he will never understand women's fashion) and elegantly melting into Arthur's side. “I got worried,” she finishes sweetly.

 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Can I just tell you how _charmed_ I am that everyone who's ever met me thinks I'm only capable of being a workaholic.”

 

“So, everyone you've ever met has eyes?” Morgana teases, using her best innocent face.

 

“Ha ha,” is all Arthur comes up with, which is, really, explanation enough of how distracted he is. Morgana waits far too long before making just one quiet humming sound; Arthur vaguely notices that this is not how Morgana usually acts, but is too happy to be left to his own thoughts to point it out.

 

He realizes he's being kind of creepily obsessive over Merlin's absence, but even he has come to admit that Merlin is his only actually close friend, as sad as that is and people, especially those like Arthur, care about their friends (that's Arthur's story and he's sticking to it), and that sometimes means they get somewhat stalkery and paranoid. Oh, Arthur really hopes no one ever asks him about why he's so worried for no real reason, because his explanation is kind of rubbish (of course, there's another explanation, one that Arthur is not willing to consider right now).

 

“So,” Morgana starts when Arthur fails to observe in time that they've just passed her favourite café.

 

“Yes?” he answers reluctantly, after a brief mental debate over whether ignoring Morgana is a good idea (it's not, it never is if one wants to keep their eyeballs firmly lodged in their skull).

 

“You've shagged then,” she says matter-of-factly. Arthur almost trips over his own feet.

 

“What?” he splutters, all thoughts of... whatever he was thinking about evaporating out of his head.

 

“You and Merlin. You've shagged. And now you don't know what to do, which is why you're freaking out,” she explains in the same tone of voice she would use to talk about weather. “Pardon, why you're _thinking_ ,” she adds with a sly smile. She steers them down another street, leading them straight to the entrance of Arthur's building as she guides Arthur through her deduction.

 

“You've seen too much _Sherlock_ ,” is all Arthur takes away from the whole story. Well, maybe a little smile, too. When Morgana sticks her tongue out at him, he understands that that's what she was aiming for. Sometimes, Arthur is really glad he has such an observant sister (mostly he's not, though; seriously, it's no fun when she knows who he has the hots for before he figures it out himself, and it was especially not fun back when they were in high school).

 

~*~

 

Morgana may be amazing at cheering him up when she wants to, but this time the effects are nowhere near long lasting, because the first thing Arthur notices when he walks into his apartment is that he has a new message on his phone. He checks the caller ID, and it's definitely Merlin's number, but when he plays the message, it's just a few long seconds of silence and then the line goes dead.

 

On the one hand, Arthur counts it as a victory because Merlin did contact him, which means that he's alive (probably), but on the other the message is not so much a message as it is a confirmation that something is obviously wrong. For Arthur, who is not used to dealing with outwardly caring for people and trying to help them, it brings a lot of confusion. He knows he should call back, maybe even find out where Merlin lives and visit him, but he's not used to checking in on sick friends and he's not sure of the etiquette for it. Also, he may be freaking out a little about Merlin not actually wanting him to visit (but only a little, because one Arthur Pendragon does not freak out).

 

Eventually, he just dials the phone again, deciding that if Merlin wants him there, he'll pick up. He doesn't.

 

~*~

 

When Arthur goes to bed that night, he's exhausted, more so than he's been in ages, and he's fairly certain it's because half of his focus is always on where Merlin is and why he's not communicating in any way. Of course, as it usually happens, the fact that he's knackered makes it even more difficult than usual to fall asleep. Sometime between two and three in the morning, somewhere between actual sleep and the half-wakefulness that precedes it, he wonders if Merlin is sleeping, if he's sick, or if he's partying the night away. He knows it's not the last one, because while Merlin loves fun, he's not the type to just up and abandon his responsibilities and, more importantly, friends ( _me_ , Arthur carefully avoids thinking) for a few nights of drinking. No, it's something serious and Arthur vows to his flapping curtain that tomorrow, he will find a way to puzzle out what's wrong, if he has to break down Merlin's door.

 

~*~

 

Of course, in the morning, Arthur is nowhere near as determined. But he is still just as worried (especially when Merlin doesn't answer his calls _again_ ), so he packs Merlin's employee file into his bag anyway.

 

~*~

 

“Arthur, are you even paying attention?” his father snaps at him, all but slamming his fist on the table.

 

Arthur startles and tries (fails, by the looks on the stern faces around him) to cover his flinch. “Of course, father,” he replies calmly. Uther gives him a look like he's about to snarl at him, but accepts the reply and continues the meeting. Arthur tunes out again.

 

He can count on the fingers of one hand the times he didn't pay attention in meetings. He understand and accepts that these meetings are basically his life, that this is where he needs to prove that he's worth his name, that he can handle the business once his father retires. If he fails to impress, the Board won't choose him for Uther's successor. He has been made acutely aware of this on many occasions, none of them all too pleasant. His father has told him countless times that as the first and only son, it's his duty to live up to the Pendragon name, to be successful, to be _the best_. But today, running on too little sleep and too much indirect introspection and way too many thoughts about _feelings_ , he just can't summon the concentration to follow the meeting.

 

Morgana leans back in the chair next to him and subtly stretches her leg so that her foot brushes his calf. He gives the tiniest nod to acknowledge her, their routine practiced over years of boring dinners and even more boring home-schooling. Morgana raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow and Arthur taps his fingers against his chin four times, their childhood's code for getting out as soon as possible. Of course, their father doesn't remain oblivious, Arthur can feel his glare burning the skin of his neck, but he doesn't turn around.

 

Morgana stands up almost before he's done signalling her. Sometimes, Arthur really loves having her for a sister.

 

“Morgana, what do you think you're doing?” Uther grits through his teeth.

 

Morgana flashes a blinding smile. “I am bored, _father_ ,” she answers in a tone that makes her sound like a spoiled brat in a candy store. Which, on second thought, is accurate enough.

 

“Morgana, this is important,” Uther says, clearly seeing through her act, but unable to do anything about it in front of his influential _friends_. Arthur would laugh if he could. He would laugh if he didn't know that this was his future as well.

 

“Yes, well, you're here, right?” Morgana replies, completely unperturbed by their company and dragging Arthur to his feet. “Arthur and I are going to have fun,” she finishes with a flirty smile that makes a few of the men across from them shift in their seats. Arthur makes a mental note to stay away from the creeps as much as possible.

 

~*~

 

They're sitting in Morgana's favourite coffee shop when Morgana finally drops the act and asks, “What's wrong?”

 

And Arthur doesn't know how to answer that, because for all he knows, nothing is wrong. It's just this terrible _sense_ of dread, his vague impressions that Merlin wouldn't do this if something horrible hadn't derailed him somehow. He doesn't know how to say that and make it sound convincing, make it make sense. So what he does instead is deflect.

 

“Have you heard from Merlin lately?”

 

“What?” Morgana looks slightly taken aback by the question as she lowers her mug of hot chocolate. Arthur feels his cheeks colour at her look – he can basically see the little wheels turning in her head, leading her to all the wrong conclusions.

 

“Don't go there,” Arthur stops her immediately, waving a hand. “I'm... I haven't seen him or heard from him since Friday. And it's not like him to not come to work.”

 

Morgana stares at him for a while, as if expecting him to say that it's all a joke. When Arthur only stares at his coffee, avoiding her eyes, she cuffs him on the side of his head. “Friday!? What on Earth possessed you to wait so long to contact him?!” she says way too loudly for Arthur's liking, but he's shushing gets lost under her words. “I assumed he'd called _you_ , but no, you think it's normal that he just, what, disappeared for five days, for the love... Arthur. Call him. Now,” she orders.

 

Arthur's stomach does a weird twist. He's known Morgana since they were babies and he knows when she's worried; she likes showing weakness about as much as he does, probably less, it's something Uther's ingrained in them from a young age, so she gets angry to hide fear and worry and Arthur can recognize that – worse yet, he can understand it.

 

“I've tried calling him,” Arthur replies, words like sand in his mouth. Now that he's talking to Morgana about it, he can see how silly it was not to inquire about Merlin with their mutual friends, not to try harder. Morgana, never one to disappoint, picks up on it too, he sees it in the way she rolls her eyes.

 

“Let me guess, he didn't answer and you didn't think it was, I don't know, _manly_ enough to push it?” she hisses, standing up and bringing their faces dangerously close. She looks furious, but behind the faint pink tint in her cheeks and the bunched up eyebrow, Arthur can see that she's concerned. He swallows hard several times before he manages to find his voice again.

 

“That's not how it is.”

 

“Yeah, well, I don't care. Go to his place and don't leave until you know what happened,” she says, standing up to her full height and looking down at him. Her expression softens when she adds, more quietly, “As his friend, you owe him that.”

 

The door has barely closed behind her when he picks up Merlin's folder and finds his address.

 

_3: i know i've been gone for what seems like forever_

_(but i'm here now, waiting)_

 

Merlin's building is easy enough to find. It's surprisingly close to the _Camelot_ building (which actually shouldn't be that surprising because Arthur can remember Merlin mentioning that he walks home), but in a fairly bad neighbourhood that Arthur remembers having business in (never a good sign). Merlin's block of flats is a dilapidated grey building with a door that doesn't lock and two broken windows in the hopefully empty apartment on the ground floor. It's not so much dirty or scary as it's old and not properly taken care of. Either way, it's a far cry from what Arthur is used to.

 

The building, understandably, doesn't have a doorman or a bell, so Arthur has to check the mail boxes in the hallway to find Merlin's flat. It's at the top floor, the furthermost from the stairs, in a corner with mold on the ceiling, but it's been recently repainted to a light blue colour that Arthur always associates with Merlin anyway. Every step closer to the door makes him a little bit more nervous until he's clenching his fists and staring at the dark wooden door.

 

He tries the doorbell first, presses the button twice and waits, his throat closing up and his mouth dry. He's not sure if he's expecting something along the lines of Merlin's beheaded body or a black-clad ninja, but neither jumps at him – the door remains closed. He rings twice more with the same results before he starts knocking. The papers he remembers seeing in Merlin's hands are piled up at the door (so he's probably subscribed to them, but it looks like he hasn't picked them up in days). Arthur stops knocking for only long enough to shout for Merlin to open the bloody door, but there's nothing in reply, no sound of movement or the click of the lock. He checks if the door's locked at all, but it is and Arthur, while he could, really doesn't feel like picking a lock to a friend's apartment.

 

He's about to give up because it's obvious that even if Merlin is there (which is highly questionable at this point, Arthur is not sure how anyone can ignore his pounding on the door which has become so loud that he is half-expecting one of the neighbours to get out and scold him), he doesn't want company, when he hears a muffled sound from inside the apartment. It's quiet and clearly meant to stay unheard, but Arthur is pretty sure that it's a sob. He freezes on the spot, cold sweat breaking out on his neck. He presses his ear to the door, but now he can only hear a faint shuffle of feet on the carpet somewhere near.

 

“Merlin?” he ventures, speaking quietly through the lock. He almost feels like if he speaks too loudly, Merlin will run off somewhere, the apartment will go back to deadly silence and he will be standing there deciding if it's worth knocking the door down to get through.

 

“What do you want?” Merlin asks through the door. His voice sounds scratchy and disused, like he hasn't spoken in days, but it's more than that, it's how Merlin says the words, he seems... _different_.

 

“I...” Arthur starts before he has to let just that hang in the air. He didn't really plan what he was going to do past finding Merlin's flat. “You haven't been to work in days,” he settles on saying, a safe distance from how worried he is, but still true.

 

“I quit. Go away now,” Merlin replies flatly, his breath hitching only once on _go_ and Arthur can't, _won't_ , be pushed away that easily when something is clearly very wrong.

 

“Merlin, stop being an idiot and open the door,” Arthur says, carefully keeping his voice level, but finding it easier to demand than beg (as always, he thinks bitterly; Morgana is not the only one spoiled in his family).

 

“Arthur. Please, leave,” Merlin returns sternly, and his voice is still deep and rough and Arthur faintly wonders if this is what Merlin sounds like when he wakes up, before he realizes that he's trailing off to thoughts that are entirely inappropriate and mentally scolds himself for not keeping his focus (but then, Merlin's always had a strange effect on him).

 

“You know that I can break in, right?” Arthur asks, going for a teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood, to somehow assess just how bad of a shape Merlin is in. Merlin only huffs irritatedly and mumbles for Arthur to give him a second. So. Pretty bad then, Arthur concludes.

 

There's a sound of a door opening and closing, water running, more doors, more shuffling. Arthur waits patiently, trying to guess what Merlin is doing. As more time passes, Arthur becomes twitchy, starts wondering what it is that has Merlin taking his damn sweet time; more or less impossible scenarios start playing out in his head as he tries to mentally prepare himself for whatever it is that has his usually chirpy friend sounding so... broken.

 

When the door opens, he knows nothing he could've imagined would have prepared him for this.

 

The firs thing he notices is Merlin's face. It's clean and dry, but the wet locks of hair sticking to his forehead tell Arthur exactly when that happened. There are heavy bags under his eyes, like he hasn't slept in days, and he's even paler than usual. But that alone is not what makes Arthur's lips part on gasp he doesn't let out – there's a livid bruise on Merlin's right cheek and his eye is swollen, a small, infected-looking cut decorates the other side of his face, the corners of his lips are suspiciously red and although Merlin has raised his bathrobe so that it covers most of his neck, Arthur can see an angry cut on the side of it.

 

“Dear god,” Arthur murmurs, taking in the way Merlin's slouching, how he's only leaning on one leg, how his hair is sticking out every which way, looking as if he hadn't washed it in years. Merlin just stands there, face impassive and bland, letting him look his fit without saying a word, lifting an eyebrow. “What the hell happened to you?!” Arthur wants to yell, but the words get stuck in his throat and he doesn't think he could yell now if somebody paid him; instead, he reaches a hand out, planning to place it on Merlin's shoulder, as comfort or encouragement or question or whatever else Merlin needs (and Arthur doesn't _know_ , that's the worst part, he has no clue what to do, how to make anything better, is not sure if he should say something or do something, and what, and now, for the first time in a long time, he regrets being so immersed in work and forgetting how to just _be_ human; his hand shakes as it nears Merlin's body and he forces it to steady because the last thing Merlin needs is someone insecure, that much Arthur knows, so he recalls every calming technique he's ever learned and makes himself look like he knows what he's doing).

 

When Arthur's fingers brush over Merlin's covered shoulder, however, Merlin gives a violent shudder and steps away quickly; there's a flash of panic in his otherwise eerily dull eyes when he says, “Don't touch me!”

 

Arthur lifts his hands in a placating gesture (like talking down a kidnapper or a suicidal teenager, he thinks before shaking himself when he realizes how much exactly Merlin's resigned and uncaring posture really reminds him of all the depressed kids he's seen in those suicide prevention seminar presentations) and carefully enunciates, “Okay, okay. No touching.” He wishes he knew how to make it more personal, what to say to make it more about Merlin, about them, because these words are impersonal and mean little to either of them. “How do you feel?” he asks and immediately regrets it – stupid; Merlin snorts, then looks away, then shrugs a shoulder, seemingly confused over how to answer, but his initial reaction gives Arthur hope that the Merlin from a week ago, the one he knows, is still somewhere in there.

 

Arthur racks his brain for something else to say, but comes up blank (it reminds him of college, in a way, going to exams knowing everything, then looking at the questions and suddenly forgetting it all – he's had the most extensive training in dealing with crises, is the CEO of one of the most successful companies dealing in security, but now that it matters, it's suddenly all for nothing). Eventually, after a few long, incredibly awkward seconds, he takes in the fact that Merlin is not yelling and screaming at him to go away as an invitation, walks into the apartment and closes the door behind himself. Merlin looks up at the click of the lock, any remaining colour draining from his face, eyes going wide. He licks is his lips nervously and fails at hiding the twitch of pain at the action. Arthur's brain suddenly kicks into overdrive.

 

He's made the rookie mistake, he sees now; he's been focusing on Merlin as his friend, as someone close to his heart, and his emotions have taken over due to that. It's the first thing any decent emergency technician teaches you – don't get close to the victims, it makes it difficult to think and make decisions. Merlin is his friend, but he's also hurt and scared and getting him medical help should be Arthur's first priority; whatever other kind of help Merlin will require (and there will need to be a lot of it, judging from Merlin's behaviour so far), will have to wait.

 

Arthur closes his eyes to distance himself before saying, with as much authority as he can, “We need to get you to a doctor.”

 

“No,” Merlin immediately replies, back a few more steps away, “no, no, no, don't touch me.”

 

Arthur tries not to be hurt by the words (it's not personal, he keeps repeating to himself), and tries to exude calm and security as he strides to Merlin's bedroom and starts picking out clothes. He's done this before, damn it, he's _taught_ people how to deal with exactly these kinds of situations, he'll be damned if he doesn't do his best work yet now when it's for someone he actually cares for.

 

“Merlin, you need a doctor and you know it. For once, don't argue with me.”

 

Merlin looks at him and for a second, his eyes are familiar, bright, with a life of their own. The Merlin looks away, squares his shoulders and tells the wall, “I don't want to talk...” He takes a deep breath, tries again, “I don't want to talk about what happened.”

 

“I understand,” Arthur automatically replies, even though he really, really doesn't and he has to swallow down a million questions that he knows Merlin is not ready to answer yet. He mutely hands Merlin the pair of jeans and the sweater he picked up from the pile of hopefully clean laundry in Merlin's room. Their fingers brush in the exchange and Merlin snatches his hand away as if burned. Arthur resolutely doesn't react.

 

~*~

 

The walls of the hospital are so white, they burn his eyes. Not just the walls, everything is white – the floor, the ceiling, the lights, the coats, even the curtain that separates him from Merlin and his doctor. Arthur paces nervously up and down the hall, checking his watch approximately every two minutes, even though it always feels longer.

 

The ride was unpleasant, tense with obvious questions and unforthcoming answers. Merlin had opted to sit in the back, and after the last incident in his flat, Arthur made a point of avoiding any physical contact between them, as much as he hated it (Arthur could understand physical contact - putting a hand on somebody's shoulder to congratulate them on a job well done or hugging someone to comfort them; words, he was not so good with). For the most part, Merlin remained apathetic, pale as a ghost and just as lively. Every once in a while, Arthur would catch Merlin glancing at him, a strange mix of expressions on his face, sometimes more disbelief, sometimes more gratitude, but Merlin would always look away quickly.

 

When they got to the hospital, Arthur was pushed to the side as a nurse (clearly far more skilled than him, he noticed bitterly) led Merlin off to be examined. It looked like any other normal interaction between a patient and a nurse, but for the fact that she never laid a finger on him. Arthur wondered how she knew not to.

 

The sound of a curtain being pulled back makes Arthur turn around (he thinks he may have become conditioned to it in the forty or so minutes he's spent there) to find Merlin's doctor filing away samples of what he can only assume is Merlin's blood. The curtain around Merlin's bed is pulled back around before he gets to peer behind it.

 

“Your partner has asked not to be disturbed,” the doctor informs him, taking out a notepad and scribbling onto it.

 

“My... what?” Arthur asks, not really paying attention, as he catches a glimpse of Merlin lying in the bed (on his side, sunk into the white sheets and pillows, his face as expressive as a blank mask, eyes trained on something Arthur can't see, one arm outstretched and hooked to an IV) when a nurse slips in carrying a tray with needles and threads and various little bottles.

 

“Mr. Emerson, he's your partner, no?” the doctor says, putting a hand on Arthur's forearm. Arthur is about to shake it off purely out of habit (some of his father's friends tend to use the gesture on him in a distinctly condescending way) when he catches up to the conversation.

 

“No,” he replies, tearing his eyes away from the unmoving curtain. “Did he... Is that what he said?”

 

“He said friend, I assumed. I apologize,” the doctor replies as he tears out a piece of paper from the pad in his hand. “Now, he's specifically asked that the information about his condition remain private and he was very adamant about not seeing anyone right now,” the doctor continues, raising a hand to stop the protests Arthur can already feel forming on his lips, “ _and_ as his doctor, I must obey his wishes.”

 

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and frowns. He's waited for almost an hour to find out if Merlin is all right and now he doesn't even get to see him; it angers him that nobody understands that this is unfair, that he deserves to know, that he _needs_ to know what happened (and how to fix it, because Merlin can't stay like this, it's just unnatural). He looks carefully at the doctor and wonders if it would be better to bribe him or threaten him – he's young, clearly looking to prove himself, a well constructed rumour would ruin him. Yes, Arthur decides, scaring the doctor into submission sounds like a better idea. He opens his mouth to make his offer, but the doctor smiles at him enigmatically and waves a hand in front of his face.

 

“Don't bother with it, Mr. Pendragon, if I could, I'd tell you. Even without the threats.” Arthur deflates at his plan being seen through and instead starts to plot how he can get close to Merlin without a nurse or a security guard stopping him. “But, what I can do,” the doctor adds, offering Arthur the piece of paper with big, printed letters in black ink, “is to ask you, as Mr. Emerson's friend, to make sure he follows these instructions.”

 

Arthur glances at the paper (there's something that looks like a medicine scribbled on it, along with how it should be taken, and two dates for check-ups; on the back are visiting hours), not really sure if it's supposed to be some sort of a cryptic message, but positive that he'll stay up until he finds out everything he can about every word of it. He's about to ask something more when the door to the A&E opens and somebody walks in. Merlin's doctor sees them and waves them over, he gives Arthur's shoulder a short squeeze and murmurs, “Come back tomorrow, he'll need friends to get through this,” before walking away briskly and leaving Arthur possibly even more frustrated and confused than before.

 

~*~

 

That night, it only takes Arthur about 0.18 seconds to find out what Merlin is being treated for (and how ineffective the treatment will probably be). It only takes a little longer than that to add up all the clues and figure out what happened. Believing it takes a bit longer.

 

He spends about three hours Googling various facts, statistics and other information about rape and its aftermath, but it's the confessions and stories from websites offering advice and help that give him terrible nightmares.

 

~*~

 

The visiting hours at the hospital just so happen to be during the working hours of _Camelot Securities_. Arthur doesn't even consider not leaving early, but his father choose that day to come and “see how things are going”. Arthur's no stranger to this kind of inspection – his father can hardly let him do business unsupervised for longer than a month. Usually, these visits make Arthur feel like he failed at something, but today, they are just making him frustrated.

 

Uther has requested to see the files of their new clients and the reports on the three most recent injuries at work. He's reading them on Arthur's personal computer, while Arthur stares over his shoulder, pretending to care about what his father is saying. He tries to surreptitiously hint at the fact that he wants Uther gone, but his father is either not noticing or doesn't care.

 

Either way, when he has only an hour left for visiting, he gives up on all propriety and everything his father expects from him, stands up and walks out. He doesn't think his father even realizes he's actually leaving and for once, he doesn't care. What he's doing may be rude and unexpected and it may land him in trouble later, but it feels _right,_ feels _better_ than following his father's requests and orders.

 

~*~

 

In a way, meeting with Merlin is something he's been looking forward to, a way to make sure that Merlin is alive and well and not the scary shadow of who he once was, while it's also a chance for Arthur to check on him, hopefully ask the right questions this time around, since he now knows what he's dealing with; on the other hand, Arthur is all too familiar with screwing things up and making bad shit worse, and this is something he has a very good chance of fucking up epically. Yet, it doesn't even occur to him to leave. If he were to wonder about that (which he is totally not doing in an attempt to buy some time before facing Merlin and to get his shit together), he'd probably say that he felt obligated for some reason to help his friend. (If he were to wonder and answer truthfully, he'd admit that it's actually all about wanting to help _Merlin_ , but he's never really been good at being honest with himself, so why start now.)

 

As he walks to the room the nurse directed him to, Arthur plans what he's going to say. He remembers every time he's tried to help people with emotional problems (a grand total of two times, both of which ended in near-disaster), goes through every surprisingly helpful and insightful article he found online and tries to form an opening sentence that will be comforting, encouraging but not patronizing. And then he's suddenly walking through a white door and seeing Merlin wrapped in sheets about as white as his skin and resting on pillows as blue as his wide eyes; his mind goes blank but for the intense anger at whoever did this and a strong surge of pity for Merlin that he squashes immediately because he knows that's not what Merlin wants or needs right now.

 

He searches for an appropriate thing to say and ends up opening with, “Hi.” Clearly, his best line.

 

Merlin looks at him then, with eyes that are filled with anger and hatred (and rimmed in red that mixes quite spectacularly with the frankly impressive blue of tiredness that's still very much there) and Arthur's instinct is to step back; but he doesn't, because it all fades into nothingness and then Merlin is staring at him with empty eyes that make Arthur want to run away. But he doesn't, because this is Merlin, and damn it, but Arthur is sticking with him through this. Merlin studies his face for a while longer, before something apparently clicks because he rolls his eyes and turns away completely.

 

“Seriously, does the whole world know? I don't want to talk about it,” he tells the window on the far wall.

 

“I wasn't— No one's gonna _make_ you talk about anything, Merlin,” he replies, quietly, but certainly. Reassurance of safety and all that (in reality, he's utterly out of his depth here; he's a businessman with extensive knowledge about self-defence and security systems, he's not a damn therapist and he has no clue what he's doing, but he's _trying_ , okay? Trying however, doesn't seem to be good enough this time.)

 

Merlin snorts into his pillow, then coughs. When he speaks again, his voice is scratchy, almost as rough as it was yesterday and Arthur has to question his assessment that it was disuse that made it so. “Right, no one.”

 

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that, so he stands awkwardly and fidgets with the buttons of his suit, suddenly supremely aware of the fact that he's being of little use. He wants to ask what Merlin means by that, but he has a strong feeling that it's not a good a idea. Unfortunately, he doesn't know what else to say either. After a while, Merlin sighs and half-turns to face him.

 

“Arthur, why are you here?”

 

That at least Arthur can answer. “I want to help,” he replies immediately. Merlin huffs a breathy noise that just might be a laugh that is totally devoid of humour and filled with bitterness instead.

 

“You _can't_ help me,” he answers, turning away again. Arthur approaches the bed and reaches out to turn him over, then remembers himself and pulls his hand back. His palm burns as if he's touched a hot stove, but he doesn't reach out again.

 

“I will do anything that you need me to,” he says. It's cliché and sounds completely dishonest, but he means it and he hopes to god Merlin can hear that.

 

“Anything?” Merlin asks, tone unreadable, and Arthur doesn't know if it's a challenge or a hope.

 

“Yes,” he answers anyway.

 

“Go away,” Merlin simply states, still not looking at him. Arthur is about to answer on instinct, that yeah, sure, he can do that, when. Wait, what.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Arthur,” Merlin starts, but then his voice loses the flatness, the bravado, and he flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling. If his eyes are shinier than usual, Arthur doesn't mention it. “I can't do... _this_ right now, I can't do _people_ , it's not... I just need to be alone,” he says, going quieter with every word, like he's not even sure this is what he wants. “Please, just. Leave,” he adds, looking at Arthur so pleadingly that even as Arthur goes through all the rational reasons to refuse, he knows he won't.

 

Arthur waits for just long enough to not make it obvious that he _can't_ possibly say no to Merlin like this, cannot possibly refuse anything that might help Merlin (he doesn't ever want to admit to Merlin just how little control over himself he has when he's around Merlin), then nods. Merlin doesn't smile, but he looks more at ease.

 

“Promise me to call... when, you know. You can...” Arthur waves a hand vaguely in front of himself. “Do people,” he finishes lamely. When he looks at Merlin, Merlin is facing away from him again.

 

“You really don't want that,” he says so quietly, Arthur almost doesn't catch it. He's about to reach out again, deny it, but he knows it's no use. Instead he nudges the mattress of Merlin's bed with his knee to get his attention. Merlin looks at him over his shoulder.

 

“Promise me you'll call,” Arthur murmurs quietly, matching Merlin's tone. He doesn't say he's going to help, he doesn't say everything will be okay, he doesn't say anything else; not saying is easier, not saying he's good at. Not saying is sometimes better, silence is sometimes louder, and he would bet his life on Merlin knowing him well enough to read the silence properly.

 

Merlin looks away first. It's strange, Arthur is not used to this new Merlin (he knows it's wrong, but he hopes the new Merlin is just temporary, hopes Merlin will be able to go back to _before,_ but if he doesn't, well, then Arthur is just going to have to get used to this, because he's not abandoning Merlin now just because it's easier; there are times when easier is better, but Arthur is no stranger to the situations when easier is just not an option, and choice is difficult and doing the right thing is arduous, but Merlin is worth the hardship, Arthur knows that).

 

“I promise,” Merlin eventually whispers; only then does Arthur leave.

 

_4: to convince you that i'm not a ghost or a stranger_

_(but closer than you think)_

 

It's eleven days before Merlin calls.

 

During that time, Arthur loses three clients because he's not really paying attention, his father yells at him more than three times but he doesn't know why because he's not really paying attention, Morgana somehow figures out what happened to Merlin from Arthur's vague, unfinished sentences and whatever other resources Morgana has, but Arthur doesn't know how she does it because he's not really paying attention, Gwaine hooks up with Lancelot and Arthur has no clue how the fuck that came to be, because he's not really paying attention.

 

Each and every one of the eleven days that pass, Arthur spends with half a mind on Merlin and half on what's happening around him. And truth be told, it doesn't bother him in the slightest. If someone had told him three months ago that he wouldn't care what his father thought, that he wouldn't be bothered by losing clients, he would've told them they were mad. But it feels good to, for a change, care about another person who's not his family, and care about them so deeply that he forgets everything else. The honest truth is, Arthur never thought himself capable of that. After all, it's no secret that he's emotionally crippled (Morgana's pointed that out so many times, Arthur is pretty sure the sparrows that dwell in the city have learnt by now), and it's been a long time since he felt this strongly about anyone; it's been so long that Arthur's begun to wonder if he's ever really loved anyone outside of his family, if he even could.

 

But this, this is kind of nice. Horrible, obviously, on the account of Merlin going through fucking hell (and Arthur hates that part), but also kind of nice, in the sense that Arthur is finally doing something that feels good and right and fulfilling (he may have made his peace with the job his father had set out for him before he was even born, but this is not what he dreamt of becoming when he was a kid; well, actually, he can't remember because he never dared defy his father's wishes before, never felt he had a strong enough reason anyway, but he's pretty sure _okay_ is not how someone feels when doing their dream job), that he, the spoilt privileged first son (that he knows he isn't, but everyone expects him to be, so it's easy to play the part), is putting himself aside and doing things for someone else (and he _likes_ doing that, but he's been taught that it's weakness, that he's supposed to demand, not offer), that he is doing something he will fight not to fail at (failure comes naturally to him, it doesn't take a genius to figure that out, it only takes a few words from his father) because it _matters_.

 

So, when his phone rings loudly in a middle of a meeting with some lawyers about some system bug (yeah, he's not really paying attention, _again_ ), he apologizes half-heartedly and walks out without another word (but with his laptop case because he recognizes the number on his screen, so he knows the meeting can and will have to wait, because this is more important). He doesn't bother with greetings or introductions, just slides the phone open and says, a little too loudly, “Merlin!”

 

“I'm calling you,” Merlin replies, apparently also over greetings and pleasantries.

 

“Yes, I can tell,” Arthur retorts drily before he realizes that he's fallen far too easily into the way he used to treat Merlin, a way that will probably need to change now. Still, he doesn't apologize, because Merlin is not stupid and he will take it for what it is – treating with kid gloves; Merlin is also not without pride.

 

“I—“ Merlin takes a shaky breath that rings in Arthur's ears like a gong; he has just about enough time to wonder if Merlin is going to hang up on him, but Merlin is stronger, more stubborn than that, and Arthur should have known that. “Can you come over? I don't want to go out.”

 

Arthur doesn't mention he's already in his car.

 

~*~

 

When Merlin opens the door, he's wearing comfortable-looking sweats and a flannel shirt, his skin is not quite as ashen grey as it was the last time Arthur saw him and his lips look normal. There's a small bandage on his cheek and a large on on his neck, but overall, he looks better. Physically. Because when Arthur looks, really looks, into his eyes, they're still hazy and dull.

 

“Hi,” Arthur says stupidly. He's going to need to think of another opener. Merlin steps aside wordlessly and Arthur takes it as his cue to walk inside (he squeezes past Merlin without touching him and leaves his coat and bag on the hanger by the door; Merlin doesn't say anything or move after closing the door, just stands in the hallway, looking out of place and uncomfortable in his own apartment and Arthur's chest grows a little tighter at seeing him like that). Merlin's flat is a mess, it looks like he hasn't cleaned since the last time Arthur was there, everything is littered with more or less full containers of take-out and more or less dirty clothes; the only thing that actually looks remotely usable is the sofa in front of the TV, where there is only a bundled up blanket and a pillow.

 

“So,” Merlin starts when Arthur's eyes have finished roaming around the flat and have nowhere to settle but on Merlin's face. There's almost a challenge there for Arthur to look away. But Arthur doesn't. This seems to be the right thing to do, because Merlin is not looking away either. “Sorry about the mess,” Merlin finally continues talking when it becomes obvious neither of them really knows what to do now.

 

“That's okay,” Arthur replies automatically. It's difficult to gauge what he needs to say when he can't read Merlin's eyes, they're usually so expressive, like a huge pointer in the right direction. “So, um. How are you?” Arthur could (and probably should) just kick himself. It's a stupid question that Merlin probably can't even answer right now. Arthur bites his lip until he sees white from the sharp pain, but for what it's worth, maintains eye contact.

 

Merlin waits before answering, frowning and looking up, apparently thinking about the right way to answer. He looks like a schoolboy being asked a difficult question, but not wanting to give the wrong answer. In the end, he just shrugs a shoulder and lowers his eyes to the floor.

 

Arthur wants, with a sudden and burning intensity, to hold him and never let go, to kiss him until Merlin's really _there_ with him, the biting comments and bright smiles and funny clumsiness all, to whisper against every inch of his skin that he's _safe_ now, do it until Merlin believes it. And Arthur is an idiot (he knew that before, but it's particularly jarring when he's having an epiphany in the middle of Merlin's messy apartment), he's an idiot and a coward and an idiot, for not admitting it sooner, for not accepting it, for not letting Merlin know because now may be too late, and even if it's not, it's definitely gonna be more difficult, and Arthur doesn't even know how to go about it anymore because things have changed drastically in the last two weeks and he is finding himself more and more in a situation where he has to act the way he thinks he should and just hope for the best and he hates it.

 

“Can I, um, get you a glass of water or something?” Merlin asks, a tinge of concern in his voice (and it's sad that Arthur has to count that as a victory, has to see it as progress that Merlin doesn't sound like a robot), because apparently that minor panic-attack-slash-oh-shit-moment played out pretty obviously on his face.

 

“No, no, I'm... fine,” Arthur replies absently, running his fingers through his hair. Okay, time to get his shit together, he's not the one who's allowed to freak out now. This is not about him having the hots for his best friend, this is about said friend being in need and Arthur helping. And Arthur will, if it be the last thing he does, remain calm and collected and certain, and he will help Merlin with this any way he can. And if they ever do get to a point where Arthur can reach out for Merlin's hand and kiss his long, knobbly fingers and get a smile in return, well, even better; but if they don't, Arthur will learn how to deal with it, because Merlin's comfort is so much more important than his belated realizations right now.

 

For lack of anything better to do (and also because when it comes to Merlin, he is unusually observant and therefore knows that Merlin likes tea and how he likes it, and how did he not notice that he was treating Merlin differently from everyone else until now is beyond him), Arthur goes to the kitchenette and starts poking around the cupboards, setting the water for Merlin's tea and his coffee and collecting all the dirty dishes into the sink.

 

“What are you doing?” Merlin asks, sounding only somewhat interested. Arthur turns around and finds him leaning over the island that separates the kitchenette from the rest of the living space. His head is tilted to the side and he's sort of looking at Arthur like he's never seen him before.

 

“I'm making tea and coffee. Also, cleaning, apparently,” he adds when he notices the frankly gross mish-mash of Chinese and chicken wings in a container from a Chinese place he doesn't know. He makes the mistake of smelling it, then promptly has to lean over the sink and stop himself from vomiting. Merlin snorts behind him; Arthur would be embarrassed if that wasn't the closest Merlin had come to a smile or a laugh in days.

 

“Didn't know you were actually capable of house work, what with making me do all of it all the time,” Merlin replies flatly and it takes Arthur a while to realize that it's a _joke_ , it's a jab like any other Merlin would normally throw at him, and it's not his best work and the tone is not quite there and when he looks at Merlin, he's not smiling, but it's an attempt and Arthur appreciates it (and picks up on the hint Merlin is giving him, that they're not talking about _it_ , that it's the let's-pretend-it-never-happened time, and Arthur gets that, it's his way of coping with things most of the time too, but he also knows it doesn't work, not for long anyway; he doesn't point it out for fear of being kicked out or having Merlin shut down on him, but he dreads the moment when the elephant in the room sits on their laps and they _have_ to talk about it).

 

“You learn, when you live on your own,” Arthur shrugs with a small smile. It's true, but it's also something Merlin already knows. But then, this conversation is not about disclosing their deepest darkest secrets, it's about subtlety and hidden messages and it's not Arthur's forte, but he can play the game when he needs to, years of doing business have taught him as much. So he says that he lives on his own, but what he really means is _come over if you need me, I'll be there_. Merlin looks away from him with a strange melancholy in his eyes, and Arthur knows he got the message.

 

He's saved from a reaction when the water in the kettle boils and he turns away to prepare their respective drinks. When he looks around again, Merlin is sitting on the couch, holding the remote in his hand, but his back is rigid and he's tense and he glances nervously in Arthur's direction every few seconds. Arthur tries not to feel the pang in his chest over having such an effect on someone he cares for, and he knows it's not personal and he knows Merlin can't help it, but it still hurts a little. He doesn't let it show, though, walks to the sofa confidently and sets Merlin's tea on the coffee table in front of him (anything to avoid touching Merlin accidentally and seeing him pull away like it's the most offensive, painful thing), then sits on the other end of the sofa.

 

“I'm not the best company right now,” Merlin breathes, a little unsteady, like he doesn't want Arthur to leave but kind of expects him to. This is the point when Arthur would normally reach out over the couch and run his fingers over Merlin's exposed forearm, and without the freedom to do so, Arthur feels oddly handicapped, because he knows he can't do with words what he could with a touch.

 

But for Merlin, he tries. “If I just wanted company, I would've gone out with Morgana,” he says, casting a sideways glance at Merlin who relaxes almost imperceptibly. “Okay, maybe not Morgana,” Arthur adds, a little joke to try and relax Merlin just that one bit more, just to hear him huff the little breath that has, for now, replaced his laugh.

 

Merlin sets the remote on the sofa between them. “We can watch whatever, it's mostly reruns anyway,” he comments, taking his tea in his hands and curling up like a child. Arthur wants so badly to run a hand over his back soothingly, to kiss the top of his head, the way people do when they want to make you feel loved and safe (not that Arthur would know much about that). Instead, he takes the remote and finds Animal Planet, feeling that videos of funny animals are the least likely to trigger a bad reaction. Merlin hums what sounds like approval through a sip of tea and Arthur feel inordinately proud of himself.

 

~*~

 

Merlin nods off at some point. Arthur puts the blanket over him, but doesn't bother trying to move him. Merlin is already shaking and murmuring in his sleep and Arthur knows he's having a nightmare and probably won't sleep for much longer. He goes to the kitchen and washes the dishes, then gathers all the take-out containers with food that's gone off and throws them out. He cleans what he can, folds the clothes and turns on the washing machine. It's only when he comes back to the living area after all that that he realizes Merlin is awake and watching him. Merlin's eyes are a little glassy in the dim, flickering light of the muted TV and he looks like he's just coming down from the rush of adrenaline that comes with waking up from a nightmare, but Arthur does him the favour of not saying anything.

 

He holds up the little plastic bottle of _Truvada_ he's found in the bedroom, which feels far too full for a 28-day drug prescription that's already 13 days in. “You're not taking it, are you?” Arthur asks, sounding distinctly like a mother hen even to his own ears.

 

“No point,” Merlin replies, scrubbing a hand over his face and burrowing into his blanket a little further. “PEP doesn't work if administered more than three days after exposure; mine was started on the fifth day.”

 

Merlin doesn't sound remotely apologetic or remorseful, doesn't even bother, and it makes Arthur wonder if he even _cares_ about his own well-being anymore. “You knew this?” he asks, somewhat incredulously, because for all the things Merlin is, Arthur's never known him to be self-destructive.

 

“ _Wikipedia_ ,” Merlin replies into his hands.

 

“Let me get this straight,” Arthur begins, his voice going louder despite his best efforts to keep it steady. He understands that Merlin is going through probably the worst thing someone could possibly be going through, he understands that Merlin is different, feels different and thinks different, he doesn't _know_ what it's like (hopefully, he never will), but he understands, on an intellectual level, that Merlin is not being himself and that he needs understanding and help, but he can't accept that Merlin would just give up, just stop caring altogether; it scares him, and he doesn't like being scared, so he gets angry instead, angry with those who did this, angry with Merlin for giving up on himself, angry with himself for not knowing what to do, how to help. Merlin is staring at him impassively and it just fuels him to go on. “You're not taking the drug that could potentially eventually save your life because, what, it _might_ not work?”

 

He has more to share on the subject, but Merlin interjects, “The possibility of it _not_ doing anything is far greater than that of it actually working, and the side effects are unpleasant, to say the least. And excuse me for not wanting _more_ shit on my plate right now for a _potentially_ and _eventually_. Did you maybe stop to consider that I made an _informed_ decision about this?”

 

Arthur takes a second to contain the yelling he was planning on because Merlin is right here, and now Arthur feels like the biggest idiot for getting mad at him, because it's really not his place to decide if Merlin's choice is right or wrong.

 

“I know what you're going to say,” Merlin hisses even though Arthur has yet to decide what he wants to convey and open his mouth to actually do it, “that I am looking for a quick fix. And guess what? I am! I want this done and over with as soon as possible, but yes, I am acutely, achingly aware that there is going to be nothing quick about this, thank you!” Merlin ends up shouting the last few words louder than Arthur's ever heard him shout, and Arthur doubts Merlin knows there are tears running down his face. There's an awkward pause in which Merlin realizes this, wipes his face with the blanket and looks away from Arthur, while Arthur just stands there, dumbfounded and at a loss for how to react. Merlin's gone from quiet and reserved to explosively wrathful in about the millionth of the time he usually takes for that and Arthur doesn't know how to apologize or calm him down or take back what he said; he's frozen there in that one second, one wrong sentence it took him to cause this outburst. “Please, leave,” Merlin eventually pleads, words quiet and muffled into the blanket and Arthur is pretty sure he's breathing through the sobs and is probably, knowing Merlin, embarrassed about it, so he gathers his stuff and gets out.

 

He stands in front of the door, leaning against it, listening as Merlin starts crying out loud, then throws something ceramic by the sounds of it, kicks something and yelps in pain, then kicks it again and continues crying. Arthur doesn't know what he's doing there, he should be leaving, he should be giving Merlin the time and the privacy to break down without anyone there to witness it (it's what he would want), but it's like he's glued to the door, listening, waiting, hoping for something he can't quite put his finger on.

 

He slides down the door, sits there on the cold, dirty concrete and waits and waits and waits.

 

~*~

 

Arthur figures he's probably taken a nap, from the countless wrinkles in his suit and the stiffness of his neck. He doesn't know how long it's been or why he's not still taking said nap until he hears a quiet voice calling his name, just once, with a light knock of fingers on the door behind him. He stands up as quickly as his sore body will allow and knocks back. “Yeah?” he whispers. It feels like after all the yelling, any sound louder than this will make Merlin break down in tears again, and if Arthur has to hear to that once more he might cry himself with all the helpless rage that he felt as he sat there, listening to Merlin venting in his apartment.

 

“Thank you,” Merlin replies in the same quiet, broken tone, far too breathy and much more intimate than Arthur would've expected, had he expected to hear that. “For, you know, the tea. And cleaning.” _And staying_ , he doesn't say, but his fingers drum it on the door and Arthur knows he's not imagining it.

 

“Any time,” he replies, just a little louder, a little more certain; he's not quite positive on who he's trying to assure, himself or Merlin.

 

“Goodnight,” Merlin says, followed by the sound of his footstep moving away from the door. Arthur leans his forehead against the door and knows he's welcome back tomorrow.

 

~*~

 

In the six years that he's spent working for _Camelot_ one way or another, Arthur has never taken a personal day. So it comes as no surprise when Freya snorts her drink when he calls her to say that he won't be coming in, or that he has to turn off his cell phone after the seventh call from his father or that Morgana calls him on his landline to congratulate him.

 

“I can finally call you my brother and be proud of it,” she says sweetly into Arthur's ear.

 

Arthur has his head in the fridge, looking for breakfast, his phone pressed to his ear. Contrary to popular expectations, his plans for the day don't include copious amounts of rest or going out; he's going to track down Gwaine (who is on pretend sick leave that Arthur signed off on and therefore owes him a favour) and enlist his help in installing an alarm system in Merlin's apartment, then, hopefully, stay there for the rest of the day – he doesn't like the idea of Merlin staying there alone for very long, of Merlin alone anywhere, actually, it makes him uneasy. It's not that he thinks Merlin will do something stupid... Well, actually, it is. Merlin is not really himself right now and Arthur is worried, so sue him. The thing is, the day didn't start out very well, what with Gwaine not answering his phone and no sign whatsoever of Merlin (not that it's unexpected, but Arthur was kind of hoping somebody would bother to try to make his life easier), his coffee machine is broken and there's nothing edible in the fridge, which all amounts to one very grumpy Arthur.

 

“You said that when we first ditched school together,” he reminds Morgana as comes up empty-handed in the breakfast department and swings the fridge door closed.

 

“Hm, true,” Morgana agrees, “but this is probably as close as you've come to defying our father in your adult life, so it's still a pretty big moment.”

 

Arthur realizes it's a jab and he knows Morgana is trying to cheer him up or at least provoke some kind of a reaction, but he's not awake enough to respond. He's starting to think he may be a tiny bit addicted to coffee. He just grunts in reply and starts packing the things he'll need.

 

“Arthur, have you had coffee yet?” Morgana asks after a few minutes, during which time Arthur completely forgot he was still on the phone. “Because you sound like a drunk caveman, and it's entirely unappealing.”

 

“My coffee machine's broken down,” Arthur answers after he clears his throat several times to get it to work. “I'll have some at Merlin's.”

 

“Oh,” Morgana just says at that. Arthur hasn't told her much about what happened to Merlin, doesn't even know what he would say and is pretty sure Merlin doesn't want him to; he called Morgana after he left the hospital on the day he found Merlin, to let her know that Merlin was alive, but had clearly been physically attacked, though he didn't call again later that night to clarify just _how._ He assumes Morgana's at least tried to get in touch with Merlin and that she has, whether from those conversations or from something Arthur did or said, deduced what happened, because Arthur's positive she knows, he can see it in the way her posture goes just a little stiffer, her lips just a little thinner, her voice just a little deeper when someone points out that Merlin's not coming to work.

 

Sometimes, he gets the urge to ask her if it was indeed Merlin who told her, but he doesn't; he doesn't want to hear the truth, not really, because he's more than aware of the fact that Merlin didn't want Arthur to know, and it makes him irrationally angry and jealous to think that Merlin would trust Morgana over him. To be perfectly honest, if it weren't for doctor Banner's help (for which Arthur is immensely grateful because he knows there are laws against that and the man was totally risking his career to give Merlin someone to rely on, a task Arthur hopes he can live up to, and he's planning on sending the good doctor a fruit basket or giving him champagne or becoming his slave or something), Arthur would probably still be in the dark about the whole situation and that doesn't sit well with him; his need to know (and control, but hey, everyone has flaws) basically everything happening around him aside, he can't imagine going to Merlin with absolutely no clue as to how to help (not that he knows this way, but he somehow feels more confident this way, when he at least knows what he's helping _with_ ).

 

“How is he?” Morgana eventually asks, saying the words so timidly, Arthur almost doesn't recognize her. “He answers my calls now, says he's fine, but he doesn't sound it. And he won't let me see him.”

 

“Really?” Arthur asks, frowning. “I thought you were, like, his best friend.” He thinks he manages to keep the slight pang of bitterness he feels at that hidden.

 

“Oh, Arthur,” Morgana laughs, “don't be silly. _You_ are his best friend. I mean, sure, we're close, but he always makes little mental notes to tell you about things we see and he worries when you work too hard and on some level, I believe he even admires you. As much as it pains me to say it,” she adds, with an exaggerated sigh, “you two fit better somehow. You bring out the best in each other _and_ make it fun. Merlin enjoys that.”

 

Arthur doesn't remember when he stopped pottering around the house during Morgana's mini monologue, but when she finishes, he's left standing dumbstruck in the middle of his living room. He's never really thought about things that way; Merlin has somehow slipped into his life through some secret back door and become his best friend (and way, way more, Arthur can almost admit that now) without him even realizing, but Merlin is more sociable, has more free time and a wider circle of friends, and Arthur never thought he was enough to beat all that, to be better than all that. He's almost never free to go out (and when he is, it's usually just drinks and complaining and maybe a few jokes and a lot of friendly banter), he's absent and forgets birthdays and dates and important moments, he doesn't call or text or talk that much and, while he enjoys and utilizes casual touches easily, he is far too stoic and reserved to hug or show his emotions much. He would do anything for his friends, would kill and die for them, but he would also never say that or show in any way his willingness to do it. He's arrogant too, but not arrogant enough to be completely unaware of these flaws.

 

Arthur is pretty sure most of Merlin's other friends don't come with such problems, which is why it never occurred to him that he'd ever be good enough to be _the best_ to Merlin.

 

When he comes back to his senses, Morgana has already hung up on him and it's almost eleven in the morning, which is much later than the hour Arthur planned to have gotten Gwaine by, so he sits on the couch and starts dialling Gwaine's number, an odd lightness in his stomach and a smile fighting its way to his face. Merlin's always had a strong effect on him, even when it's by proxy.

 

~*~

 

Arthur trusts Gwaine. Really, he does. He would trust Gwaine with his life; in fact, he has already. Gwaine is not just one of their best bodyguards, he is also, although he doesn't look it, a computer whiz. On top of all that, he's a good friend. So yes, Arthur trusts Gwaine.

 

But he also knows Gwaine, and there is a part of him that fears Gwaine's cocky humorous self will not take this seriously enough, won't pick up on the signs that Merlin is very much not all right no matter what he says, and will say or do something that will set Merlin off into either fury (probably directed at Arthur for bringing Gwaine along), or into tears (Arthur prays it's former if there's absolutely no avoiding such a strong reaction because he'd rather get yelled at a million times than stand idly by and watch Merlin fall apart _again_ ). So, when he knocks on the door and Merlin asks who it is, Arthur mentally braces himself for all kinds of things and replies, “Hey, it's me. I brought Gwaine as well.”

 

There's a few seconds' pause, even though Merlin is right on the other side of the door and if Arthur tried really hard, he could probably hear him there, and Arthur looks at Gwaine, who's looking back with a raised eyebrow. Arthur has, of course, told Gwaine that he will need to be careful because Merlin is a little... touchy, because he couldn't just throw Gwaine into this without any information, but he hasn't shared anything past that because he feels it's not his place (also, a small, vicious part of him feels protective, possessive even, of the knowledge he has and the trust Merlin's shown him, he doesn't want to share it with anyone).

 

The lock clicks and Merlin opens the door. He's still wearing comfortable, old clothes he probably wouldn't be caught in dead outside of his home, there is still a bandage on his neck and a band aid on his cheek and he looks no different than yesterday, but Arthur notices the way he holds himself stiffly, arms on his sides as soon as he lets go of the doorknob, his back ramrod straight and face carefully blank.

 

“Hello,” he says politely, but it lacks warmth. “Arthur. I didn't expect you here so soon,” he continues, his tone painfully at odds with how he's dressed and where he is, but totally in keeping with the way he's acting.

 

“I took a day off,” Arthur replies, trying to keep his tone light and act like everything is normal; it's hard not to fidget under Merlin's reproachful eye.

 

“Hi,” Gwaine pipes in gruffly as they walk in. Arthur may have been giving the man too little credit, as Gwaine doesn't hold his hand out and carefully moves around, taking his jacket off and leaving his bag without touching Merlin; Arthur makes a mental note to congratulate him on such observance. Merlin raises his hand in an awkward wave.

 

“Gwaine's here to help me install a security system for you,” Arthur says, hoping he sounds reassuring, not apologetic.

 

“Oh,” Merlin replies, relaxing minutely and Arthur feels like he could laugh just at that, smallest of acceptances. “Would you, um, like something to drink?” he asks, still overly politely, but sounding less fake now.

 

“I'm good, thanks,” Gwaine replies with a smile at the same time as Arthur says, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, “Coffee!” Merlin gets that little flash of a spark in his eyes that tells Arthur he's amused, but his lips still remain unmoving and Arthur wonders, for only a second, if he will ever see Merlin smile again. Then he mentally kicks himself for even having such bleak thoughts – after all, it's only been a fortnight and, as Merlin pointed out, it will take time to make it better. And Arthur knows all too well how important it is to believe that you _can_ succeed when doing something difficult.

 

Arthur follows Merlin into the kitchen, throwing Gwaine a grateful look over his shoulder; Gwaine smiles at him and nods like he understands. Merlin is already pouring instant coffee into a mug when Arthur catches up with him. He leans back on the island and watches Merlin move around the kitchen with easy familiarity, so much smoother than the way Arthur made his tea yesterday.

 

“I'm sorry I didn't warn you,” he says eventually, when Merlin turns and sees him there, then cocks his head with a confused expression on his face. It feels strange to apologize, foreign, but Arthur knows it's the right thing to do here. “It only occurred to me when I got home. And well, Gwaine's the only one free right now.”

 

Merlin shakes his head slowly, “Yes, on a sick leave if I recall correctly. Doesn't look very sick to me.” He makes a show of looking at Gwaine who is unpacking the alarm hardware.

 

“Yeah, err...” Arthur doesn't really know what to say to that. Knowing Merlin, a joke is about to follow, but it's so different now, when Merlin's face doesn't give away as much, it's difficult to get a read on him.

 

“And to think you wouldn't let me have one when I was actually sick,” he finishes, shaking his head again.

 

“It's was just a cough!” Arthur laughs. Merlin looks at him fondly and almost, almost cracks a smile, one corner of his mouth twisting upwards. Arthur grins at him, about to say something else, grab his opportunity and milk it for all it's worth, see if he can get a proper smile, however small, when the water boils and Merlin turns away.

 

The coffee is bland and the mug he's given is an ugly green colour, but when Merlin hands him the mug, their fingers touch and Merlin doesn't pull away. It's the best coffee of Arthur's life.

 

~*~

 

Merlin leaves them to work on their own, he watches TV for the most part of their work, then reads a book that looks suspiciously like a romance novel (not that Arthur is judging, really, he's not... well, he kinda is, but he doesn't say anything). Arthur finds that he is always aware of where Merlin is and what he's doing, like he's watching a mischievous child who needs constant surveillance, and he knows it's probably condescending and patronizing and a lot of other things Merlin frowns upon (and Morgana outright rages about), but he's been called worse than condescending so he doesn't really care.

 

“So, um... What happened to him?” Gwaine asks, pretty early on.

 

Arthur debates how much he should share and ends up saying, “It's a long story. But it's pretty bad.”

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Gwaine replies. “Kind of reminds me of my sister. In all the wrong ways.”

 

Arthur doesn't tell him how close a comparison that is and does his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

 

He knows the story about Gwaine's sister, remember hearing for the first time years ago, when they were still only becoming friends and they got a little (a lot) drunk after a really bad day and Arthur asked what made Gwaine want to work in security. Gwaine didn't hesitate in telling him about his divorced parents, or about his mother getting custody over his little sister, or about the psychological abuse his sister suffered for years after that, but he broke down crying and sobbed the rest of it into Arthur's shirt when he got to the part about his sister's eventual suicide due to depression. Arthur remembers well the anguish he could _feel_ in the words, the confession that Gwaine felt like he failed to protect her, like he needed to somehow make up for that; Arthur can relate to that easily. They haven't spoken of that night since, pretended it never happened, much to Gwaine's obvious relief. That Gwaine is bringing it up now, Arthur can tell, means he's very worried.

 

“He's... he seems to be better. Than he was when I... found him,” Arthur says slowly, hoping Gwaine won't ask too many questions even though Arthur's being as vague as possible.

 

“Yeah, that's what I used to think about Suzy,” Gwaine snorts and goes back to work. They don't speak much after that; Arthur is too busy trying to fight off the fears of walking into this same apartment one of these days and finding Merlin's lifeless body on the floor.

 

~*~

 

“Hey, um,” Arthur starts that evening, long after Gwaine's refused Merlin's offer to pay him and left, after Merlin's made another coffee and sat down on the opposite end of the couch from Arthur's, after they've seen hours of animal shows and one slapstick comedy, and while Merlin is staring at the screen, seemingly too lost in thought to pay attention. He jerks out of his reverie and looks at Arthur with a questioning hum. “You're not going to...” Arthur trails off, because how does one ask that, how does one ask their best friend if they are planning on swallowing too many pills or putting a gun in their mouth. “Are you...” Arthur is pretty sure that in this particular case, it's not his lack of finesse with words that's holding him back, but the question itself. “You know you can call me for anything, right?” he just asks instead. “Anything. Any time. I'll always pick up.”

 

It's the closest he's probably ever come to a heart-to-heart, and it is deviating from how he normally is, but it's dark, and they're alone, and Arthur wants to (but he knows he wouldn't be welcome to, so he doesn't) reach out and hold his hand so badly, so he doesn't regret it, even when he feels the blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks when Merlin keeps looking at him. Merlin stares at him like his staring _through_ him, like he can see every thought and every feeling Arthur's ever tried to hide, and at some point, Arthur stops breathing from the intensity of Merlin's eyes (such a deep, ocean blue in the dim, flickering light) boring into him and it's a long while before either of them moves.

 

Merlin looks away and whispers, “Yeah, got it.”

 

~*~

 

Arthur doesn't take tomorrow off. He would rather spend the day with Merlin, even if all they do is just sit around watching crappy daytime TV, but he thinks that Merlin will, maybe, see it as oppressive, think that Arthur doesn't believe he can be trusted to spend any time on his own. Truthfully, Arthur would rather he didn't, but he's not about to admit that to Merlin.

 

His day is exceptionally boring. He can't focus on his work, doesn't get anything much done and keeps getting distracted. It's as if he should be somewhere else, as if somehow all of the work that he has to do at his actual job is not _enough_ , almost like he's missing an uncomfortable couch and a man who sits too far away and TV that should, realistically, be more boring than his work.

 

He is among the first workers to leave and he goes straight to Merlin's place.

 

~*~

 

“You're here again,” are Merlin's first words when he opens the door. He's not really accusing, it's more like he's... baffled.

 

“Yeah. I brought Chinese?” Arthur replies, lifting his offering in front of him. Merlin lets him in and starts unpacking the food, but he still looks confused. Arthur doesn't ask him why, presuming Merlin will, in his own time, ask whatever it is that's boggling his mind (Arthur is not very patient, but he has self-control, a lot of it, and he's giving Merlin space and time because he knows that right now, that's what Merlin needs – to do everything at his own pace).

 

As it turns out, Merlin waits until they're approximately halfway through their mostly silent meal to ask, “Are you gonna come here every day?”

 

“I was planning on it, yes,” Arthur answers and smiles over his chopsticks. Merlin is looking at him with a strange mixture of disbelief, suspicion and gratitude, apparently trying to figure out if Arthur is being serious. Arthur tries not to let it show that he's actually nervous about Merlin letting him come every day as he continues smiling.

 

“Why? All we ever do is watch TV. Eat. Drink coffee or tea.” Merlin makes it sound offensive, like it surely must be demeaning to Arthur to be there, to keep him company. He's looking at the food he's picking on and his hands are shaking just enough for Arthur to notice. Arthur's never seen Merlin this insecure and self-deprecating, it makes him feel uncomfortably like he's somehow letting him down, like he's failing to make him feel better.

 

“Because,” he says around the lump in his throat, “you're my friend. I want to help you. Even if it means just sitting around, watching TV.” Merlin doesn't look up, just swallows audibly and grips his chopsticks tighter. Arthur wonders how it is that Merlin's trouble has made him open up more in two days and all the people he knows in all the years of his life.

 

When Merlin stands to clean up after them, his fingers brush lightly over Arthur shoulder, and Arthur can tell that it's not accidental and he reads the _thank you_ that the touch burns into his skin.

 

_5: if there's a time these walls could guard you,_

_then let that time be right now_

 

They fall into a routine easily enough. Arthur goes to work, then picks up groceries or take out and goes to Merlin's place. They eat, drink tea, watch TV, talk. But they pretend like nothing is unusual, like things are exactly as they were a month or two ago. It's not easy for Arthur to act like everything is a-okay when Merlin always sits on the opposite end of the couch, or stands on the other side of the kitchen island, avoids any kind of contact and every once in a while, seems to get lost in his thoughts before jerking violently and coming back to reality. But he does it, because it seems to be working well enough for Merlin, who's not really getting better (Arthur can see, now that he knows what to look for, knows not to take everything at face value, the little crinkle in Merlin's forehead when he pretends to be cheery, the slight shaking of his hands; Arthur can see that most of it is just an act, but if there's anyone who understands needing to put on a mask of strength and stoicism for the world and yourself, then it's Arthur, so he goes along with the act, plays his role of unsuspecting friend the way Merlin has for him countless times before), but is not getting worse either.

 

The thing with Merlin is, he's a stubborn son of a bitch, and even now, Arthur can see that he is trying to deal with everything on his own and that he won't back down from that plan. He doesn't ask, oh no, because Merlin pales and cringes and shuts down at even a mention of anything remotely related to rape, it's just one of those things, something he knows because he's spoken to Merlin before. Everyone knows that Merlin likes to be independent, to do his own thing; Arthur admires that – Merlin's been living on his own for a couple of years now, while Arthur, despite his recent disagreements with his father over his more liberal work policy, can't imagine having to go through life alone. But more than that, Merlin's always insisted on getting everything done on his own, refused help like it was offensive, and that, Arthur can relate to – the feeling that he's somehow failed if he needs help.

 

So he gives Merlin the freedom, the time to do whatever it is that he does between late nights and late afternoons of Arthur's leaving and arriving anew. And as curious as Arthur is most of the time (sometimes the apartment is tidier, or there are clothes dripping on the balcony and Arthur can see what Merlin's been doing all day, but most times, nothing looks any different), and he doesn't prod or question or inquire because the point of giving someone space is lost if you go MI5 on their asses about how they use that space.

 

It all seems to be working well enough for a while, with Merlin gradually becoming less and less surprised at seeing Arthur at the door, and starting to act less and less like a scared, caged wild animal, always stiff and looking over his shoulder, around Arthur; and Arthur, despite constantly keeping in mind Gwaine's message – it's not always obvious that things are not okay, lets himself hope, just a little bit, that Merlin is different, stronger, that he can get over this faster, sooner.

 

And then it happens – Arthur's phone rings in the middle of the night, waking him from a rather pleasant dream, and Arthur is already cursing the caller to high heavens when he looks at the screen and finds Merlin's name on it. The panicking thoughts of something happening are followed by the feeling of all the air being sucked out of his lungs, out of the whole room, worse than being punched in the gut, and he fumbles with the phone to answer as quickly as he can. By the time he is frantically saying Merlin's name into the phone, he's already on his feet and getting dressed, because Merlin calling him at 2 hours after midnight (and wow, is it Christmas already?) cannot possibly be a good thing.

 

“Arthur,” Merlin replies, his voice at least two shades higher than it normally is, “I need you to come pick me up.”

 

Arthur is not sure it's normal for him to actually feel a bit giddy amidst all the subsiding fear (he's alive, as long as Merlin is alive, they'll figure something out), because Merlin actually _called him_ , trusted him enough to ask him for help. So, as guilty as he knows it will make him feel later, he can't stop himself from smiling as he slides behind the wheel of his car, asking, “Where are you?”

 

~*~

 

It's not difficult to spot Merlin on the corner, holding his coat tightly around himself, the lower half of his face hidden behind his blue scarf. He's standing frozen in place, staring at the park in front of which Arthur is about to park his car. People pass him by, most of them already drunk, yelling curses and Christmas wishes, usually in the same sentence. Merlin stands out, one unmoving figure behind all the young people running by, one person not celebrating the supposedly happiest day of the year. Arthur locks the door and runs across the street, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car.

 

“Hey, I'm here, what happened?” he huffs, white steam rising from his mouth into the misty, dark night, as he stands awkwardly in a pile of slush near Merlin, who doesn't seem to notice him. Two weeks ago, Arthur would have tapped Merlin's shoulder or shaken him or poked him somehow otherwise, but there have been enough awkward cringes and enough moving away even for Arthur to get the hint, so he doesn't even reach out, his hands firmly in his pockets, as he waits for Merlin to come out of whatever thoughts he's lost in. Merlin, however, continues to stare at the park. “Hey,” Arthur repeats, waving a hand in front of Merlin's face.

 

He's not expecting Merlin to react by violently shoving him away with a loud yelp. He stumbles backwards and almost falls, stays upright only thanks to a man who happens to be behind him at the time (“Oi, mate, watch it!”); the flare of anger within him is directed at the man as much as Merlin himself, all the fear and confusion suddenly, temporarily replaced by it due to Merlin's violent, unexpected ( _ungrateful_ , Arthur pretends not to be thinking) outburst. But it's all pushed away as soon as it came when he looks at Merlin and finds him shaking, almost crying, his hands (red, the skin is already broken at the knuckles, Arthur notices – Merlin must have been standing there for hours) clenched at his sides, his eyes darting between the park in front of him and Arthur. He looks... lost, like he has no idea what's going around him or even where he is. The look in his eyes reminds Arthur of all those times he looked to the side and found Merlin only physically there. It's almost like looking at a sleepwalker, somebody locked in their own world, someone who shouldn't be startled out of it too quickly or too abruptly. Feeling at a loss for how to bring Merlin back to the real world, and beginning to silently panic (it's been days since he was last confronted with a situation involving Merlin when he had _no idea_ how to proceed and he's already forgotten that stuck between too many options feeling and he definitely hasn't missed having to make these decisions), Arthur eventually just shouts his name.

 

Thankfully, that seems to be enough, since Merlin freezes, cocks his head to the side and looks at him. “Arthur,” he says quietly, almost too quietly for Arthur to hear.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm here,” Arthur replies, standing as close as he dares, figuring that it's the best compromise between showing support and keeping his distance. “What did you need me for?”

 

Merlin looks at him, head still tilted to the side, eyes slowly losing focus. “I don't know,” he says, giving the intonation of a question almost, like he's wonder, like he's not sure. Arthur doesn't know what that means, he just knows it's creepy as hell. So he, unthinkingly, wraps his fingers around Merlin's wrist and slides them down to hold his hand.

 

He doesn't realize it at first; it is at once new and natural, the feeling of Merlin's skin something he's been missing, but at the same time it's like something slotting into place, like this is what their hands were made for, which is probably why it only hits him that he's _touching_ Merlin, skin on skin, when he looks down and sees it. He's about to remove his hand when Merlin's fingers grip his. For a second, Arthur is sure it's just a reflex, but Merlin looks him right in the eyes, just as he wraps his other hand around Arthur's wrist and whispers, “I don't know, Arthur, I just need someone... I need _you_.” And in any other situation, those words would do magic for Arthur, but the desperation in Merlin's voice is frightening, so much so that even Arthur's (apparently incredibly selfish and huge) ego can't get a kick out of them. He does still feel special, though, when Merlin, seconds later, stands close to him and hugs him, a little awkwardly, like he's forgotten how to do it right. Arthur hugs back and waits for Merlin, who's still gazing into the distance, looking a little lost, to relax and stop shaking (he does _not_ admit how much he's missed this, the touch that Merlin used to give so easily, or acknowledge how good it feels, or imagine that he can feel the heat of Merlin's body through their coats, no, no, he doesn't, because wow, this is a wrong time for that; what he does do, is squeeze Merlin tighter when he realizes that he has no idea when he will have the opportunity to do it next).

 

Now, Arthur is not a very patient man in the best of cases, so when somebody he cares for is having a minor panic attack and saying nothing about it, the only thing going through Arthur's head are questions – what was it that pushed Merlin into a near-breakdown in public, why now, why here, what does it mean that Merlin called _him_ , what should he do; but he keeps his mouth shut, lets Merlin take his time and just waits, until an indefinite time later, when Arthur's fingers hurt from cold and the snow's started again, Merlin turns around in his arms and buries his face in Arthur's neck. Arthur takes it as his cue and starts walking them to his car. Merlin's apartment is just across the park, they could probably walk there in a few minutes if they went through the park, but Arthur doesn't feel comfortable leaving Merlin alone tonight, so he makes a snap decision to bring Merlin to his apartment. He doesn't really think it through (or ask Merlin about it), just starts driving on an impulse. Merlin stays quiet throughout the whole ride.

 

~*~

 

“What do you mean, _he's at your place_?” Morgana hisses between sips of their fancy entrée with a foreign name and served in artful little cups.

 

“I mean, I took him back to my apartment and he's there now. Probably still going through my bookshelf,” Arthur replies, pretending to be eating. They've barely managed to manipulate the seating order so they'd be as far as politely possible from their father, now it's time to pretend they're enjoying themselves while their father gives speeches to anyone within earshot about his success and his company and probably murdering puppies; Arthur and Morgana have learnt a long time ago to just ignore that and the experience over the years has taught them how to be brilliant at being inconspicuously bored out of their minds.

 

“Yes, thank you, I gathered that,” Morgana says with an exaggerated eye roll. “What were you thinking taking him there?”

 

“Well,” Arthur starts, but then trails off. He's not really sure why he thought taking Merlin back to his apartment was a good idea, he just knows that it seemed right at the time, he couldn't very well leave Merlin alone last night, and he didn't think that Merlin's tiny little condo could fit them both comfortably (at least that's the explanation he's going with). “Look, it was four in the morning, we were freezing in the street on Christmas. Maybe I wasn't thinking straight, but it was the only thing that came to mind.”

 

“Why were you in the street at that hour?” Morgana asks, politely nodding at the serving girl who's taking away their plates, only to have them replaced by something even more posh and exotic (Arthur likes being rich, and he enjoys his wealth but the blatant displays of luxury of the purpose of intimidating business associates has always seemed a tad too distasteful, even to him).

 

“It's... complicated,” Arthur tries, hoping Morgana doesn't prod further. The only reason he had been looking forward to this dinner since morning was the thought of being able to talk to Morgana, maybe ask her advice, or maybe just to have someone listen to him (Arthur wouldn't admit it out loud, but despite all their bickering and teasing and genuine arguing, he's always loved his sister), but from the moment he told her about taking Merlin as his new flatmate, he's been doubting and questioning his decision to do so – after all, he hasn't asked Merlin about sharing this with anyone and the thought of putting Merlin in a yet another uncomfortable situation, even accidentally, is disquieting.

 

“Nice try,” Morgana bites back, clearly seeing through him. Knowing there is no going back now, Arthur takes a deep breath to rearrange his thoughts and figure out a way to give Morgana enough information for her to stop prying, but not so much that he makes a problem for Merlin.

 

His father, however, chooses that moment to clear his throat and ask them, in a very stern tone that Arthur doesn't remember ever being so glad to hear, “Morgana, Arthur. Would you care to join the discussion?”

 

Morgana doesn't get another opportunity to grill Arthur for the rest of the evening, something Arthur is immensely glad for, but he can feel her eyes on him nonetheless.

 

~*~

 

At the end of the evening, Arthur is exhausted. It could be the lack of sleep, or the stress of his late night adventures, or the recent strain on the relationship with his father, but mingling and making polite small talk is more draining than the last time he had to participate in it. Putting on his coat and scarf makes him feel, oddly, lighter, relieved now that he can leave, now that he can relax. The air outside is so cold that his cheeks and nose start tingling almost as soon as he's out the door; once again, the meteorologists were wrong – it's not snowing, it's just freezing. It's too cold, in fact, for snow, there's just ice. This is Arthur's least favourite weather, especially when he's driving at night, he's had one too many close calls on the roads in winter.

 

Of course, the refreshing respite of being alone in the dark, not being a CEO of a major company, not being the underachieving son, not being a supportive friend, just being human, is too good to last. He hears Morgana calling him, her voice muffled by her own scarf. He turns around reluctantly. It's been a long day and he just wants to go home and rest.

 

“We didn't get the chance to talk much,” Morgana says, pulling her scarf down, when she approaches him.

 

“I know, it's a tragedy,” Arthur teases. Truth be told, he's conflicted on that front again – on one hand, he's glad he didn't have to think of lame excuses to withhold some answers, but on the other, he likes talking to Morgana; there's something about her that gives him that perfect balance of being an overgrown child and having fun, and knowing when to get serious and take a moment to reflect. Merlin has a similar effect on him, he thinks in the back of his mind, a random stray thought, almost as if just to remind him who he's coming home to.

 

“Isn't it just?” Morgana teases back with a smile that is just lopsided enough to show Arthur that Morgana's had one glass of wine too many. “Going home?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Look, Arthur,” Morgana says, leaning in and putting a hand on his shoulder. Arthur has come to know that tone and gesture as a sign that she's about to lecture him. He rolls his eyes, partially because he really, _really_ doesn't feel like freezing his ass off on his father's driveway while being lectured by his tipsy sister, and partially because it's his duty as a younger brother to be exasperated in these moments. Then suddenly Morgana steps back. “No, you know what? It doesn't matter.” It's probably the first time Morgana's backed down from an opportunity to appear smarter and more grown up in front of Arthur. For some reason, Arthur feels like this is a big moment in their relationship, even though Morgana's memories of it will probably be hazy at best. “Just... I know you're doing what you think is best for him. But you need to talk to him about this, you need to make _him_ talk about it. Ignoring it won't make it go away.”

 

A tinge of panic nibbles at Arthur's insides without warning (he's not ready to talk, he's not ready to hear, he's not ready to _know_ , he doesn't know how to respond— and the worst of it all, it's all about him and his feelings, which, if he thinks about it, is not all that surprising – he is after all, his father's son, selfishness is probably encoded in his DNA), like he needs to talk to Merlin _right now_ , but he squashes it with the long learnt skill of a businessman who needs to keep his cool and hide his insecurities; it's something his father taught him long ago, along with the fact that attack is the best defence.

 

“Morgana, no offence, but don't you think Merlin should decide that? He'll talk to me when he's ready.”

 

Morgana snorts and throws her long hair over her shoulder. “Please. He won't talk to you, and you know that! It's easier like this, pretending nothing happened. That's exactly why he goes to you for help, he knows that deep down you're as big of a coward about this as he is and you won't ask questions!”

 

Sometimes, Arthur forgets that Morgana too went through their father's rigorous training and that she mastered it way better than he did. Then something like this happens and reminds him. (Sometimes he also wonders if she has some secret powers of mind reading or seeing the future, because she always seems to know more than he'd like her to.)

 

“Well, when he decides to come to you, feel free to grill him all you want. But as long as he's not talking, I'm not making him,” Arthur replies sternly, not wanting to get into an argument he will regret (and probably lose). He leaves pretending not to hear Morgana yelling after him, “I just want to help him!”

 

~*~

 

When Arthur gets home, half asleep, cold, too numb to still be frustrated, Merlin is asleep on the couch. He doesn't look very comfortable, but he is resting, which Arthur takes as a good sign and decides not to wake him up by moving him to a bed. He puts another spare blanket over Merlin's still form, then goes to sleep, without turning the lights on, showering or even undressing. There's always tomorrow.

 

_6: now my compassion slowly drowns me_

 

Arthur wakes up with a decision already formed in his mind – Merlin needs to stay with him. The way he sees it, it's best for everyone; they spend most of their free time together these days anyway, and this way, Arthur feels more at ease having Merlin so close. Granted, after the holidays, Arthur will have to go back to work and Merlin will be staying alone again, but Arthur's more confident in the safety and fun of his apartment than Merlin's.

 

Merlin, however, has different ideas.

 

“I can't stay here, I don't live here, I don't have any of my stuff here, I don't even know where you keep your groceries!”

 

“You can, you do now, we'll bring your stuff after breakfast and they're in the fridge, mainly,” Arthur replies over the newspaper, hoping he sounds authoritative and commanding in spite of the mild headache he woke up with.

 

“Very funny,” Merlin snorts, putting his tea mug down with more force than necessary. “I don't _need_ a nanny, you know.”

 

Arthur is grateful for the paper hiding most of his face, because he can feel that he's blushing and he shifts uncomfortably in the chair, something Merlin would've easily noticed but for the paper. So what if he prefers to be able to keep an eye on Merlin? He's just being a good and concerned friend. So what if, circumstances notwithstanding, he likes the idea of Merlin living with him? That's perfectly normal. These are not excuses for wanting to be in control, he decides, it's indignation and righteous anger.

 

“I'm not trying to play nanny,” he tells Merlin, trying to sound as offended by the idea as possible. “I just think it's the most practical thing to do. Now, let's go get your stuff.”

 

Merlin doesn't look convinced, but he obeys anyway.

 

~*~

 

The rest of Arthur's holiday time off gets progressively more uncomfortable as days go by. It turns out that his brief argument with Merlin on that first morning was just the beginning. It's not that Merlin is demanding or difficult to live with – he doesn't go out in the evenings and come back late (on the account of rarely ever going out), he doesn't ask for Arthur's help when he drops by his apartment to get something, he isn't picky about the food he eats, he even offers to pay some rent once he finds a job as an editor for some online newspaper (it doesn't pay much, but he does it from home, which is, Arthur assumes, more important to Merlin right now). In fact, Merlin is a model tenant, the kind of flatmate most people would give their right arm for, quiet and unobtrusive and easy to ignore, pretty much the exact opposite of the Merlin Arthur first met. Merlin is Arthur's obligatory loud, obnoxious, socially inept friend, seemingly the polar opposite of Arthur himself. That's the person Arthur met, the person Arthur hired, became friends with and eventually fell in love with. Arthur wasn't looking for the perfect roommate, he wanted to live with Merlin.

 

But Merlin hasn't been himself ever since that November night. He's been quiet and withdrawn, practically antisocial. He's been spending his time gazing passively at the TV and reading books Arthur knows don't interest him (some of the business handbooks that Merlin's read in the last two weeks are boring even to Arthur; someone like Merlin, who couldn't care less about running a company, would normally never pick them up). It's like a stranger has taken over Merlin's body and now Arthur lives with a person who looks exactly like Merlin, but is actually completely different.

 

Of course, Arthur is not an idiot – he's known all along that Merlin is not really the annoyingly chipper, dangerously curious man still looking for himself anymore, but it's not until they've been sharing an apartment for a fortnight that he really sees how profoundly Merlin's changed. It's not just the continued distancing from other people (Merlin is still wary of physical contact; although he will occasionally sit close to Arthur or brush past him in the living room or let their fingers touch as they pass each other mugs and plates, he still flinches when Arthur touches him without warning) and the world at large (Merlin likes to stand on the balcony or in front of the building, sometimes he will go for a walk in the morning, before Arthur is even up, but he's only left the block once – when he went to the store with Arthur, and he never goes out after dark anymore), or the near-constant silence (Merlin never really starts the conversation and only answers in short, clipped sentences) or the lack of interest for pretty much anything (everything he does seems and feels automatic, like he's only doing it because he doesn't know what else to do); it's more than that.

 

It's the way Merlin stands, slouching, and walks, dragging his feet on the ground, and sits, like he's trying to fold in on himself, be as small as possible, hide, disappear. It's the way he talks, on the rare occasions that he does, quietly, almost always with an intonation of a question. It's the way he eats, picking at his food like a child who doesn't like vegetables. It's the way he doesn't take care of himself anymore, often wearing the same clothes for days, showering twice a week and never bothering to comb his hair. It's the way his hands shake, the empty, dead look in his eyes. And the mood swings, how one minute he's just sitting on the couch, and the next he's throwing things, or going to Arthur's spare room (now Merlin's room) and shutting the door behind himself. Arthur never goes after him, feels like would be intruding and wants to give Merlin at least the semblance of privacy he clearly seeks, even though they're both aware that Arthur knows Merlin runs to hide the fact that he's crying.

 

And then there are the nightmares. Merlin goes to bed late, sometimes not until dawn or not at all, and rarely sleeps for more than a few hours at a time. Arthur can hear him in the adjacent room, pacing around or working on his laptop with quiet indie music playing, just barely loud enough for Arthur to register it. And even when Merlin does fall asleep, the nights are always restless, with a lot of tossing and turning and shouting, and on several occasions loud thumps that Arthur is pretty sure were the sounds of Merlin falling off the bed. It disrupts Arthur's sleep pattern as well, because every time Merlin wakes up, screaming or, more often, crying, Arthur can't help but sit up with eyes wide open and wonder if tonight is the night he should go over and try to console Merlin. The only times Merlin really rests are those when he drifts off while reading or watching TV, but Arthur figures that's really more passing out from exhaustion than it is actually falling asleep.

 

Perhaps the worst thing is seeing that nothing is really changing. In the beginning, Arthur had the illusion that Merlin was getting better, and after he realized he was wrong, he at least had hope things were changing. But now, living with Merlin, seeing him all the time, watching him live like a foreigner not only in Arthur's flat, but in the world itself, like a pale shadow of his former self, Arthur knows that all the progress he thought Merlin was making has lost its momentum (or maybe it has always been just a mask, a show Merlin put on for him), and Merlin is now stuck in the middle, between utter despair, shock, probably disbelief, and getting better, stuck and not going back, but not moving forward either. And Arthur has no idea how to help him, give him the push that he so obviously needs.

 

Being at home becomes almost painful, and when Arthur goes back to work in the middle of January, he's actually relieved. He feels guilty like never before, granted, but he is undoubtedly, undeniably, immensely glad to have some time away from the torture of seeing Merlin waste away.

 

_{-7}: now i'm standing on the rooftop, ready to fall;_

_i think i'm at the edge now, but i could be wrong_

 

Living with Arthur is not at all what Merlin might have thought it would be (not that he really thought about it much). While Arthur's office is a mess of disorganized documents, filled waste bins and plants that have seen better days, his apartment is neat and clean, with a lot of light and free space. It's a huge change for Merlin, who's used to living in his cramped little flat. The Arthur at work is a control freak, almost constantly on edge and yelling at everyone, insisting on things happening according to plan and on time, the Arthur at home is laid back and much more relaxed. It's a side of Arthur Merlin's never seen before and he likes it. He just wishes he'd get to enjoy it more often.

 

It hasn't escaped Merlin's notice that Arthur's been doing long hours, going out more often, has even taken up running and is generally doing everything to spend as much time as possible away from home without seeming too suspicious. In a way, Merlin does feel hurt and offended, but it's not like he doesn't understand. After all, he'd rather be away from himself too.

 

For weeks now he's been distracting himself from thinking by reading whatever printed material he happened to lay eyes on, or watching a rerun of a rerun of a show he doesn't particularly like, because everything is better than facing himself. But as he flips over the last page of Arthur's washing machine manual and walks out onto the balcony, he knows he won't be able to keep running for much longer, at least not successfully.

 

Sometimes, when he finishes a book or watches the last episode of a show, or decides that watching _Will and Grace_ for what might literally be the fiftieth time is really not worth it, he wonders if maybe he should have gone to the therapist his doctor suggested for him, but then he thinks of having to actually _talk_ about what happened, and his insides knot unpleasantly and he knows that he doesn't want to relive that. Everybody keeps telling him that it's healthy to talk about trauma and that he needs to do it in order to move on, but it's... not easy.

 

Every time he takes even a step out of the confines of the four walls (whether his or Arthur's), he can't stop turning around, looking over his shoulder in anticipation of another attack – every hooded person he sees, every woman with an umbrella, every man wearing anything more than a suit, everyone is dangerous, a potential aggressor. It's torture just standing in front of the building, but he knows he has to do it if he ever wants to get back any semblance of a normal life. Ever since he moved in with Arthur, he hasn't even tried to leave his room at night. Right now, he'd be hard pressed to remember what it was that possessed him to go back to that park at night on Christmas, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, like a step in the right direction. Clearly not.

 

And it's not just fear of going outside or fear of unfamiliar people, it's the constant anxiety he now lives with, like a reminder of what happened which doesn't want to go away. He's not comfortable kneeling, sitting down, walking; his iPod, his phone, his favourite music reminds him of that night; he'd rather never sleep again, because it's truly preferable to having nightmares every night.

 

He's gone over every single detail of what happened, made up a thousand scenarios for what _could have_ been, dreamt of all the ways in which it could have ended differently. Usually he wistfully wonders how much better his life would be _right now_ if only he'd escaped, if only he'd fought back harder.

 

But that's just the thing, is the conclusion he's come to. He didn't fight back enough. He let those men scare him and overpower him and hold him down; and what's more, _he enjoyed it_. It was one of the lowest, most humiliating moments in his life, but apparently, he now gets off on that. Worse yet, he's terrified of the prospect that, when (and if) he resumes his sex life, he will _want_ that. So he tries to never let himself drift in that direction – he goes to his room or buries his nose in a book when Arthur walks out of the shower in the morning, he pretends to be sleeping when Arthur comes back from his run, sweaty and panting, he doesn't let Arthur's voice affect him in any way. It's not that he doesn't _want_ Arthur or that there's anything wrong with him, it's just that Merlin is scared, he's paralyzed with fear of Arthur not wanting him because he's damaged goods, of Arthur leaving even after all this. Arthur has pretty much been his knight in shining armour through this whole ordeal and Merlin doesn't want to risk losing him over not being enough.

 

And then sometimes, like now, Merlin thinks about what the world would be like if those men had killed him like they threatened to. Yes, he would be gone and he wouldn't have the chance to spend all this time with Arthur, and he wouldn't have the opportunity to continue living one day, but he wouldn't be going through this torture and that sure counts for something.

 

So when he looks over the intricate white railings of the balcony, he almost wishes that he weren't there, almost wants to climb over and jump down, fly towards the concrete. Almost because wishing and wanting is too strong of a feeling for him at this point. He doesn't have it in him to desire or hope or hate. It's just numbness and fear and apathy. Nobody's prepared him for that. Back at the hospital, after the detectives grilled him for information like everything was somehow his fault and like he was the criminal, his doctor told him calmly and patiently about the possible consequences and health issues, and he mentioned depression. He failed to explain, however, what depression really was.

 

'Cause Merlin was ready for the fear, he was ready for being blamed and feeling guilty, for the humiliation; having been forewarned about them, he expected mood swings and overwhelming sadness, but no one ever bothered to prepare him for this moment – looking at the street three storeys down and thinking that it doesn't matter, that it's all the same if he walks back into the apartment or falls down to his death.

 

The door of the apartment opens, closes and the lock clicks into place. Merlin can hear Arthur dropping his keys into the bowl in the hallway and taking off his shoes. He stays where he is, though, not wanting to intrude. It's a strange, fragile agreement they have here, where Merlin has his space, and Arthur gladly gives it and neither really wants to impose on the other, so Merlin tries his best not to be in Arthur's way, because that's clearly not where Arthur wants him.

 

But it's not long before he hears, “Hey Merlin, what are you doing there?” So he turns around and walks inside. It doesn't matter anyway.

 

_8: but here in this moment, like the eye of the storm,_

_it all came clear to me_

 

“I have a problem.”

 

“Of course you do, why else would you call me?” Morgana says through a mouthful of her breakfast.

 

“Cute. Merlin told me he wanted to move back to his apartment.” The silence that follows is neither natural nor comforting. Usually, Morgana will have an opinion pretty quickly and while she may not voice it immediately, she will give it away in minute details of her behaviour that Arthur has long since learnt to read. This time, though, he only hears her chew the rest of her bite and swallow it before she replies.

 

“And?”

 

“And I don't think he should go!” Arthur replies, frustrated. He's had a headache since that morning when he yelled at Merlin ( _You'd better still be here when I come back!_ ) and Merlin yelled at him ( _Fuck you, Arthur, you're not my boss anymore!_ ) and it all escalated into an argument over something honestly best solved in a mature discussion between two adults. But Arthur, as many have pointed out, can sometimes be a tiny bit less than mature.

 

Truth be told, he's worried. He doesn't spend a lot of time at home anymore because it's difficult to see Merlin suffering, and it's just easier to pretend to have other things to do. It's not what a good friend, or a good person for that matter, does, but Arthur's been feeling the pressure to excel at everything he does for too long, and he _needs_ a break. Which doesn't mean he's forgotten that Merlin lives with him for a reason. The fact that he keeps finding Merlin on the balcony, leaning over the railings and looking down, is a sure way to keep him remembering.

 

So, when Merlin announced that he wanted to go back home, Arthur panicked, worst possible scenarios of what Merlin could do with no one around flashing through his mind. So he lashed out and expressly forbid Merlin to leave. Granted, that might not have been the smartest move, but Arthur was only doing it to protect his friend. He's getting seriously tired of his actions being misinterpreted as need for control, when all he's doing is trying to keep everything running smoothly, trying to make all those close to him happy and safe; it's all he's ever wanted. It's part of the reason why he suggested security as their business to his father years ago. It's kind of ironic how he failed at his job with Merlin, even though his job is what he was dedicated to most. Now he can't let himself fail again.

 

“You don't think he should go, or you don't want him to go?” Morgana asks, in that annoying flat tone which usually means that she thinks Arthur should do all the hard work of figuring out the right thing to do all by himself and that she's only an enabler.

 

“I think he's safer at my place, I'm there and he spends less time alone and it's more...” Even as he's saying it, he knows it's bullcrap. Merlin probably spends more time alone now that Arthur's trying to subtly avoid him, Arthur has already installed a state of the arts alarm system in Merlin's flat as well, and Arthur lives two floors higher than Merlin which technically makes his apartment _more_ dangerous. And yet. Arthur _wants_ Merlin to stay.

 

~*~

 

Arthur's whole day passes in nervous anticipation of going home; when he gets there, Merlin is where he usually is these days – he's sitting on the balcony, his legs squeezed under the railing and dangling over the edge. Arthur takes his time to change into more comfortable clothes, knowing this could be a very long conversation, and uses his opportunity to gather his wits and make a plan for what to say. While he was talking to Morgana, he suddenly realized that he needed to step up his game, because Merlin needs him.

 

Four months ago, it was enough to just be there, to make sure Merlin knew he had someone on his side. But things should have changed since then, Merlin should have made progress in his recovery and Arthur should have started doing more. But he didn't and that was a huge mistake. It's no wonder Merlin seems stuck in some sort of a loop, Arthur is finally realizing, when no one is trying to pull him out of it. But that's over now, Arthur will make sure of it. He will make up for lost time and he will redeem himself for running away from the problem with more than just feeling insanely guilty. He's opened a vacation at work, he's enlisted Morgana's help with keeping their father placated and well away from Arthur's life for the time being, he's even called some of the most prestigious (and expensive) psychotherapists in the area and arranged for some meetings. That was the easy part. Now he has to snap Merlin out of whatever haze he's in and make him participate.

 

He joins Merlin on the balcony and sits next to him, leaning against the railing. “Hey,” he says. Merlin just nods in his direction without even looking at him. “Thank you for staying,” Arthur adds, hoping that will set the tone for this conversation. He doesn't want another argument with Merlin, especially not now that he's decided to finally do what needs to be done, and he knows it's not gonna be easy. Over the last few weeks, he's learnt the hard way that it doesn't take long to provoke an emotional reaction out of Merlin, so he's planning on treading very, very carefully, because he needs Merlin level-headed and thinking straight, he needs Merlin to see the problem and its solution rationally, because that's the only way he might agree to talk about it – as cold, hard facts.

 

“Look, I wanted to... I wanted to apologize,” Arthur continues. Apologizing isn't something he does often, but in this case, Merlin more than deserves it. “I've been avoiding spending time with you.”

 

“I know,” Merlin replies quietly. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion and Arthur can't tell if he's hurt or offended or if he just doesn't really care. “Which is why I don't understand why you would want me to stay here.”

 

It's a well known fact to anyone who's met Arthur that he's never been comfortable showing his feelings or talking about them. When he was a kid, he'd hide being sick because he didn't want anyone to think that he was weak. When he was a teenager, Morgana thought he hated her because he hadn't quite grown out of the siblings-who-love-each-other-beat-each-other phase. And then he met Merlin. Merlin wore his heart on his sleeve, he trusted people to the point of being naïve, he wanted to believe in the good in everyone. Now he doesn't anymore, and Arthur wants to fix that. He wants to do for Merlin what Merlin once did for him – teach him how to start really living. So he doesn't even hesitate in replying, “Because I want to help you.”

 

“How?” Merlin asks quietly.

 

Arthur is a bit thrown by the question. He actually hasn't gotten far in figuring that part out. “I... I don't know. Any way I can?”

 

“Arthur, I don't want you to feel like you have to help me. I'm... dealing with it.”

 

“No, you're not,” Arthur replies decisively. “You're doing anything but, I do mean literally anything. And I want to say that I understand, but I don't, because it wasn't me, something like this never happened to me, and you're right, I've been doing this as a duty, because I thought it was something I was _supposed_ to do, because I felt responsible as a person who, however inadvertently still played a role in you being in that particular place at that particular time, so I never really asked anything because I never really wanted to know. But! I do now. I _want_ to help you. Not because it's what is expected of me, but because... Because I care. I want you to be... normal, if not happy again.” When he first starts talking, he doesn't expect it to grow into such a rant, but he means every word of it. It's probably the most articulate he's ever been when telling something so personal to anyone and according to all he's ever been taught, he should feel more vulnerable than ever before, but he doesn't; it actually feels empowering, more of a battle cry than a confession and he has to reluctantly admit that Morgana's been right all along, he really is shit at understanding how humans work – business, he knows, technology, he knows, but so far, most of his assumptions about human psyche and interactions have been wrong.

 

“You always lead by example, don't you?” Merlin comments, just a slight hint of _something_ in his voice that wasn't there before; it's the first joke, however understated, he's made in weeks and Arthur's proud he was the one who made it happen. He just hopes they can continue on the right track this time.

 

_9: wings won't take me, heights don't phase me,_

_so take a step, but don't look down; take a step_

 

It's not an immediate change, it's more of a slow, gradual process. It's having breakfast together and Arthur replacing his running for walks with Merlin, which get longer and longer every day. It's Merlin keeping the apartment clean and Arthur cooking for two every day. It's talking about politics and taking chairs out onto the balcony, to watch the sun set. At first, it's an imposed routine, stiff and scheduled, but in time, it just becomes the way they live. Arthur makes sure to always ask Merlin how he is doing, to always consult him before making any decisions, to always engage him in as many conversations and activities a day as possible, lets him make decisions and have some control of their lives, but never lets him relax and become complacent – he's learnt that lesson. Merlin's mood seems to be more stable now that he doesn't have too much free time on his hands, he becomes more talkative, starts eating better and, while he's not thrilled with prolonged physical contact, he doesn't cringe every time someone brushes past him in the store or on the street (Arthur is inordinately and perhaps selfishly exhilarated that Merlin seems to be okay with pretty much any contact with him; it makes him feel special).

 

They hit a few bumps. Merlin still refuses to see a therapist and Arthur's vacation doesn't last forever. Merlin still gets moody occasionally, storms off or breaks down for no apparent reason. With his father breathing down his neck like he's twenty-three again, Arthur sometimes comes home frustrated and slips back to his old, spoilt, rash self. But they're working on it.

 

What with Merlin's stubbornness and Arthur's inexperience, they need help. So Arthur asks Morgana for advice and she gives him her therapist's number. The lady turns out to be lovely and very eager to help, guiding Arthur through the process of healing after a traumatizing experience. So far, they're doing well, but there's a major step they still haven't conquered – according to Dr. Fitzgerald, the first breakthrough will be Merlin explicitly admitting to what happened and talking about it, something both Arthur and Merlin have shied away from until now.

 

Whenever they talk about what happened (which is still not very often), they always refer to it as _the incident_ , _that night_ or something else equally vague, like they don't both know what it was or like they don't want to name it. But tonight, Arthur has a plan. Merlin's gone out to the store because they ran out of milk and eggs (Merlin has taken it upon himself to go to the store whenever they need something, he calls it _a good exercise_ – in what, Arthur doesn't know yet), and Arthur seized his opportunity to do something special.

 

They're celebrating the fact that Merlin decided to get a job as a part-time clerk at a nearby clothing store, so Arthur is making a special dinner. He even bought a small plastic table and took it out to the balcony so they can eat there. He plans for it to be a calm and relaxing evening because, unbeknownst to Merlin, he is also hoping he'll be able to steer the conversation into talking about what happened. It's a bit cruel, he's already acquiesced, that he's making such a sneaky attempt at forcing Merlin's hand, but at the end of the day, it's necessary and he's only doing it to help.

 

~*~

 

All doesn't go quite according to plan. The dinner is nice and calm and the spring evening is just warm enough to be pleasant. Arthur complains to Merlin about his day and Merlin reads a letter he got from his mother to Arthur (Arthur's heart goes out to the poor woman – she is still unaware of anything being seriously wrong because Merlin's managed to keep his letters mostly the same and pretend to be fine when he's talking to her on the phone, but she's a parent and parents, Arthur is well aware, have a sixth sense when it comes to their children, they always know when something is off, and Merlin's mother is no exception). Arthur is just trying to find a way to subtly start the part of the conversation he's been simultaneously dreading and praying for all day, when he does just that without any intention.

 

“Oh, I decided to walk here from Morgana's. They're setting up a park across the street from her building. Wanna go some time?” It only strikes Arthur then how that sentence sounds like he's inviting Merlin out on a date. Combined with their living together and having meals together, it's almost a courtship. Arthur would be amused if the very idea of _courting_ Merlin didn't make him nervous – he's not used to wanting someone who already means so much to him and he knows it's way too soon for such advances (no, he's not afraid of rejection, thank you very much).

 

“I don't really like parks,” Merlin replies after a while, putting the last of the plates into the sink as Arthur brings their table and chairs inside and closes the glass door leading out to the balcony.

 

“How so?” Arthur asks, genuinely curious. He seems to remember Merlin mentioning how he used to love to hang out with his friend in a park on their street back when he was still living in Ealdor.

 

“Uhmmm... It doesn't matter,” Merlin mutters, voice pitched just a bit higher than usually.

 

It's enough to give Arthur a hint, though. It's now or never for this talk if he wants to get it over with tonight. He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves (and why is he getting so jittery about a simple conversation with a friend, for goodness sake, he's done business negotiations with people far more intimidating and powerful; but deep down, he knows this is a different kind of nervous, and a different kind of conversation, and a different kind of power that Merlin holds over him), sits at the kitchen table and takes Merlin's hand as Merlin starts to walk past him into the living room.

 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, sounding a lot calmer than he feels. Merlin's whole body stiffens and he freezes mid-step, the only thing moving are his eyes, which dart around the room once before settling on the floor. “We need to talk.” It's not exactly the smooth transition Arthur was hoping for, but it'll have to do.

 

Arthur just about catches the eye roll Merlin gives him before Merlin plops down onto the chair next to Arthur's. He takes a few audible breaths, and visibly steels himself and looks up, putting both of his arms on the table in front of him. “I had a feeling this might be coming sometime soon.”

 

“I just want to help you,” Arthur explains. He has to weigh every word before letting it leave his mouth, has to think about every sentence, lest he somehow inadvertently causes more harm than good. “Just... I don't know, tell me why you don't like parks?” he suggests. He almost wants to laugh at himself for that sentence, he sounds like he just came out of a bad Hollywood movie.

 

“Fine,” Merlin replies through gritted teeth. Arthur is hoping that Merlin is frustrated or flat out angry, he knows from experience that it's easier to say things when enraged than being fully aware of words leaving your mouth. “I don't like parks because...” For a moment it seems like he will just blurt it out, like he can't stop himself, but then he stops and takes a few shallow breaths, his skin paling and his eyes widening. `` The expressions cross his face, from anger to utter horror, to disgust, to, eventually, defeat. When he speaks again, the words are barely more than a whisper and his voice is unsteady. “Remember that park? The one where you found me on Christmas?”

 

Arthur nods. He would never, for as long as he lives, forget anything about that night.

 

“I was walking home, like I used to every day. That's where... where...” Merlin exhales a long, shaky breath and hangs his head. He looks like all the good things, all the accomplishments of weeks passed are drained out of him and there's nothing holding him upright anymore. Arthur can't stand to watch that, advice and the right thing to do be damned; he moves forward in his seat, extending his arms towards Merlin, but Merlin squirms out of the chair, murmuring, “Not right now, please, I can't,” and leaving to his room. It's not exactly the outcome Arthur was hoping for.

 

~*~

 

It's almost two in the morning when Arthur startles out of his dream. He must have drifted off at the table some time ago, because he had enough time to run through a whole zoo as two faceless men chased him. The apartment is quiet, eerily so and the only light is coming from a lava lamp on the kitchen counter. Arthur stands up, stretching his sore and cramped arms and legs. He debates turning the lights on or just going straight to bed when he hears a muffled sound coming from Merlin's room. Usually, Merlin's door being closed means that he wants to be left alone and up until now, Arthur's always done so, but he's already decided that today is the day for changes, come what may out of them, so he starts slowly shuffling down the hallway, past his door and to Merlin's room.

 

In all fairness, the door is not closed, there's a crack through which Arthur can just about make out the bed and Merlin in it; he can't see very clearly in the dark, but Merlin seems to be shaking, which can't be a good sign. The closed door, the darkness, the covers that Merlin's pulled all the way over his head if his bare feet are anything to go by, it's all like a wall put up in order to keep him out and he feels distinctly like he's intruding, but he knocks quietly on the door with his fingers and walks in anyway. Merlin doesn't show any signs that he's noticed. Arthur chooses to see that as an implicit permission, so he walks into the room and closes the door behind him. Merlin is taking deep, steadying breaths, but his shoulders are still quaking and he's sniffling. Arthur walks over to the bed and sits on it so that Merlin is facing away from him. He reaches out tentatively, like he's about to pet skittish animal, then retreats his hand. He feels foolish.

 

On one hand, he is probably not wanted here, it was stupid of him to come in, whether the door was closed all the way or not; on the other, this situation is sickeningly similar to the day Arthur first went to Merlin's flat and found him there, beaten and bruised and hiding and he most definitely does not want to go back to _that_. He wants to do _something_ , to fix this, at least a little bit, but he feels as though whatever he does, it's never the right thing. So maybe he should just leave.

 

“Stay,” Merlin whispers, as if reading his mind and replying to it. Arthur doesn't know how to respond to that, other than to let out the breath that he hasn't realized he's holding and put a hand on Merlin's shoulder. Almost immediately, Merlin stops shaking and Arthur at first thinks that he isn't ready for contact yet, but then he notices that the muscles under his hand are relaxing and that Merlin's breathing is steadier, more natural instead of consciously controlled.

 

He climbs onto the bed and sits against the headboard, leaving some two inches between their bodies, a gap that Merlin quickly closes by leaning back. Arthur instinctively runs a hand through Merlin's hair before he has the time to talk himself out of doing that on account of it being too familiar (the line between friendship and more has been blurred for a while now for the two of them, at least in Arthur's eyes; he can no longer tell what he's doing because Merlin is his friend and what he's doing because he wants Merlin to be more, he doesn't know anymore how to distinguish the touches and words that he'd share with Merlin as a friend and when they turn to the gestures of a lover). Merlin turns his head around to face him and even in the dark, Arthur can see that his face is swollen and his eyes red and his bottom lip looks like he tried to chew it all the way off his face, but he's not crying right now, he's just looking up at Arthur, like he's lost and he's searching for answers which are, unfortunately, not written on Arthur's face.

 

Then, like he's only realizing it now, he simply states, “I was raped.”

 

_10: again from the top now, and tell me everything_

 

Arthur doesn't plan on falling asleep, but he does and it's damn good luck that it's Saturday, or he would have been late for work. When he first opens his eyes, he's not sure why he is in a bed that he doesn't normally sleep in, in a room that he doesn't enter very frequently. One of the first things he notices is that his neck is sore and his back hurts and he's sitting; that's when he remembers last night in minute detail. He freezes in the middle of stretching his arms and only then becomes aware of something tickling his hip. He looks down to find Merlin's head resting against his thigh and he can't resist running a finger over the side of Merlin's face. It may end up being a terrible idea, but he decides in that instant that he doesn't want to wake up yet, and instead slides down the bed until his head is resting on the pillow. Merlin stirs but doesn't wake up, just shuffles a bit closer.

 

~*~

 

The next time Arthur wakes up, he's significantly more comfortable, if a bit too warm. He tries to turn around when his blanket moves away of it own accord. Arthur is still too close to sleep to react properly, so he only opens his eyes. He's met with Merlin's face mere inches away.

 

“Grht mrrnghrng,” he tries and Merlin's lips quirk in a smile.

 

“Morning,” he replies.

 

“Hghrto...” Arthur clears his throat before giving it another shot. “How are you?”

 

“I've seen better days,” Merlin replies honestly, looking away. “And before you ask me,” he continues, even though Arthur hasn't opened his mouth yet, “I'll tell you. Just not now. And not to some stranger with a degree. And definitely not now.” He picks up the speeds towards the end of his last sentence, before he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and the opens them again. “I'll tell you, though, I promise.”

 

Arthur nods his agreement (not that he's capable of doing much else right now) and snuggles the pillow with all intentions of going back to sleep.

 

“I'm going to work,” Merlin says, close to Arthur's ear. Arthur is about to hum something as a sign that he registered what Merlin was saying, but then he thinks better of it. It was a rough night and this is Merlin's first day at work, and really, Arthur doesn't have any obligations today – he might as well get up and walk Merlin to the store. For good luck and all.

 

“Gimme a secnd, I'm coming wityou,” he mumbles. He may be imagining it, but Merlin looks like that makes him relax a little. Arthur's chest and stomach suddenly feel alight with warmth – maybe he is doing something right after all.

 

~*~

 

The weeks that follow are pretty uneventful, yet something about them is different. The world is not quite _right_ yet, but it's better. Merlin works in shifts, so they don't get to spend all their evenings together anymore, but they make sure to take a walk every day. Arthur tries to steer clear of parks and he doesn't press the subject anymore, and Merlin doesn't really bring it up, but it doesn't feel like a closed door anymore. It's almost as if the air around them is lighter, gives less resistance so they can move more freely. Arthur wouldn't go so far as to say that Merlin is back to his old self but he's not quite as far from it as he used to be (the mood swings, while they've happened a few times, are not as severe; Merlin actually smiles every day, a smile not as bright as before, but an honest one; and any space they're in seems too small – they bump into each other more often and walk closer to each other, something that Arthur prays is intentional on Merlin's part, even though he's not getting his hopes up).

 

The one thing that doesn't go away are the nightmares. Merlin can't seem to get more than three nights of decent, uninterrupted sleep in a row and it doesn't sound like the dreams themselves are any easier to handle than before. It is in the middle of one particularly bad night that's keeping them both up, that Arthur hears a knock on his door. Unlike Arthur himself, though, Merlin waits to be invited.

 

“Come in,” Arthur says when he realizes that.

 

Merlin slips into the room, quickly comes to the bed and sits on its edge. Arthur turns on the reading lamp on the wall next to his pillow. He tries not to remain calm even after he sees how pale Merlin is and notices that Merlin's hands are shaking and his legs are restless.

 

“I need you listen to me and not say a word,” Merlin starts, and Arthur already knows it's not gonna end well.

 

~*~

 

Arthur is retrospectively angry and horrified by what Merlin went through, and unbearably (unreasonably, perhaps) guilty for every even remotely happy moment he's had since that November night while Merlin was dealing with all of this. Merlin, on the other hand, displays little emotion as he tells the story in a flat voice, like he's reporting about the weather, but Arthur can see how difficult it is for him to go through all that again.

 

“So,” Merlin concludes, “now you know what happened. You know, the doctors and nurses at the hospital, they all kept telling me it wasn't my fault. But they're wrong. Maybe I didn't _cause_ it, but clearly, I didn't fight back hard enough. Possibly because I liked it.”

 

“Don't say that,” Arthur finally cuts in, his throat dry and his voice rough, too disgusted to keep his mouth shut. _He_ feels sick to his stomach just listening to this, he can't imagine what it was like to actually be there.

 

“Arthur, I don't know what your father told you, but for most people, orgasm is the height of sexual pleasure,” Merlin says with a tone of bitter humour that Arthur wants to shake out of him.

 

“I'm sure there are plenty other explanations, my god, don't ever say that you enjoyed it again,” he says instead, clenching his fists so he wouldn't punch or break something he'd miss later.

 

“It's a logical con—“

 

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur growls, grabbing one of Merlin's wrists and holding it tightly. “I saw what this did to you, I watch you fall apart right in front of me, don't you _dare_ tell me you enjoyed any of it and don't you ever, _ever_ think it was your fault! It's nobody's fault but theirs!” He means to say more, but he can't, he's getting choked up with all the rage that he's threatening to unleash on the wrong person. He is barely even aware of where he is anymore, or of the dawn colouring the sky pink and lighting up the room, all he sees is red, all he knows is that he wants to find those men and _kill_ them for what they did; not only for the physical pain and injuries, but for the fear and the self-blame and the shame that have been systematically ruining Merlin since then. He's not even aware that he's still squeezing Merlin's wrist in his hand until Merlin cocks his head to one side and gives their hands a curious look.

 

“You're holding me,” Merlin comments.

 

“What?” Arthur asks, momentarily baffled.

 

“You're... You're not repulsed or... afraid, you're... You're not letting go, _ow_.”

 

Arthur releases his vice-like grip on Merlin's arm, but doesn't let go. The words leaving Merlin's mouth and the wonder in which he says them make him forget about being angry; suddenly, he's overwhelmed with something else – gut-wrenching sadness and even pity, an emotion no one wants directed at them, but only the rare few escape. All he wants now is to hug Merlin and hold him until he's all right. He knows it's not the cure for Merlin, he knows it can't be as simple as that. But it's a start.

 

So he crawls over the bed to where Merlin is sitting and hugs him, as tightly as he dares, runs his fingers through Merlin's hair and just holds him until he feels Merlin relax into his arms. It's not long after that that he hears the tell-tale sounds of crying. He leans his head down until he feels Merlin's ear against his lips (and right now, he couldn't care less about the friendship/relationship boundaries) and says, with all honesty and meaning every sound that leaves his throat, “There is _nothing_ wrong with you. Nothing you do or say will ever make me let you go.”

 

_{0}: i found a shoulder to lean on, an infallible reason to live all by itself;_

_i took one last look from the heights that i once loved, and then i ran like hell_

 

It wasn't so long ago that Merlin would look over the railings of the balcony, see his own body, bloody, broken and lifeless, on the pavement and not feel a thing. Not today. Today, he's leaning over the balcony and watching the building entrance, waiting for Arthur to come home from work. They're throwing a small party (just a few select friends, Merlin's mom joining them later) to celebrate Merlin's official moving in. He sold his condo two days ago, after a few long discussions of all the pros and cons of the project _Arthur and Merlin: living together_. The truth is, Merlin had made his decision long ago, before he sold the apartment, before he even considered selling. He can't quite pinpoint the exact moment when he realized that he never wanted to move out, but he knows it was probably around the exact same time he realized Arthur saved his life.

 

If it weren't for Arthur, Merlin never would have thought twice about jumping out of a second-storey window. If it weren't for Arthur, Merlin would never have looked for help, would never have even left his flat; he would have stayed in his bed until he starved to death. And, most importantly, if it weren't for Arthur, Merlin never would have known that he had a reason to rebuild himself, to continue living.

 

Arthur was the one who showed Merlin that he had people to rely on, people who loved him and would support him through anything. It took a lot of time, tears, fear and struggle for Merlin to finally realize – that's enough. But now he knows, that for as long as there is even one person who will be there for him, he will have a reason to live.

 

And when his best reason so far walks through the door, Merlin steps away from the edge, smiling, and goes inside to greet Arthur.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ^^


End file.
